


Oblivion

by Laora



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, basically a tale of bromance at its finest, full of fuzzy feels—and then not-so-fuzzy feels, now featuring Thorin's A+ people skills!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laora/pseuds/Laora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Company was Bilbo's family...or, at least, he thought it was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i — iii

**Author's Note:**

> For a Kink Meme prompt that was calling for some sort of oneshot, but then of course I got a hold of it, and it wound up being 25k words...
> 
> Will be posting the other three parts soon...just need to polish them. In the meantime, enjoy chapter one!

_._

_._

_._

_._

* * *

_{an epilogue, of sorts,}_

* * *

_._

_._

_._

_._

Looking back on it now, Bilbo honestly doesn't know what he was expecting.

(He's never been good enough, not for anyone—not for the Bagginses or the Tooks or anything in between, and certainly not for the dwarves who burst so abruptly into his life. He's a freak, and nobody— _nobody_ —wants him around.)

(It was a foolish hope from the start, thinking that he might have finally found happiness.)

Living in the Shire was...nice, he supposes. He never truly wanted for anything—except companionship, of course, but he knows he's been lucky to have the few acquaintances that he does. His pantry was always stocked; his smial was comfortable and inviting, even if his visitors were few and far between. But nothing truly terrible had ever happened to him. His home hadn't been stolen by a dragon; he hadn't fought and killed and watched his friends die at the hands of murderous beasts; he hadn't struggled to make ends meet, to put food on the table and a roof over his head...

He knows he has no right to complain, but he was just so  _lonely..._ living on his own as the master of Bag End, not-quite-ostracized by the other hobbits and hating every moment of it.

And then, of course, thirteen dwarves and a wizard invaded his pantry and his home and his life, and he knew nothing would ever be the same again.

(As the journey went on, he believed—he  _hoped,_  with every fiber of his being—that they would be the family he hadn't had in decades. He dreamed of Erebor just as they did, though perhaps for different reasons, and he allowed himself to think that maybe they would allow him to stay, when all was said and done.)

Of course, he's known since he was small that he's never been good enough for anyone. Why should Thorin Oakenshield and his company be any different?

_._

_._

_._

_._

* * *

_{but first, let's rewind the tale.}_

* * *

.

.

.

.

* * *

**i: he's a stranger among friends,**

They've been on the road for a week or two, and Bilbo thinks he's starting to adjust to this new life. He knows to be ready to move before the last of the dwarves, lest Thorin lash out at him; he knows to ride near Balin or Ori or even Fíli and Kíli during the day, as they are the kindest to him.

(They are the kindest but still keep him at a distance, as if not sure what to make of him—the hobbit who so reluctantly joined them to go slay a dragon. Likely, they're trying to figure out why he decided to come along.)

(Bilbo is wondering the same thing.)

He wakes early this morning, as he is wont to do, and rolls over to see Bombur making breakfast in the center of camp. Despite the fact that he often chats with Bofur, Bilbo realizes that he knows next to nothing about the larger dwarf; he seems content to ride near his brother or cousin, nodding and laughing when appropriate but rarely joining in the conversation.

Bilbo doesn't know why—he barely knows anything about dwarves and their culture—but with their love of cooking and their shyness, he'd like to think that he's found a kindred spirit in this one.

So he smells the stew Bombur's making, using what's left of the rabbits Kíli shot the night before, and makes his decision. He rummages through his bag as quietly as he can and pulls out a package of spices, standing and making his way toward the fire.

"Good morning," he greets kindly, stepping carefully over Dwalin's outstretched legs as he mumbles and twitches his nose in slumber.

Bombur spins in surprise, half-raising his ladle as if expecting an attack. He flushes red as his hair when he sees who it is, and quickly inclines his head. "Good morning, Master Baggins."

"Please, just call me Bilbo," he says, waving a hand before offering the spices. "I just thought you might like some help...I brought these from Bag End, if you'd like to use them for breakfast."

Bombur only stares at him for a moment, and Bilbo wonders suddenly if he's somehow insulted him, whether offering to help a dwarf is the most offensive thing you could possibly do. (It wouldn't be the first time he's made such a blunder.) But then the moment has passed, and Bombur smiles and takes the bag, sniffing it briefly. "Do hobbits enjoy cooking?" he asks curiously as he drops a small amount into the pot. "I haven't met many dwarves who do."

His voice isn't boisterous and cheerful, like his brother's; nor is it loud and harsh, like his cousin's. But Bilbo finds it easy to talk to him, and they start up a cheerful conversation as the rest of the dwarves begin to wake. By the time everyone is moving around, breakfast is ready, and Bilbo helps dole out stew as the others bring their bowls.

(He avoids their gazes as best he can, terrified of angering someone before the day's travel has even started... And because of this, he misses the way Thorin's stare is a little less harsh than normal. Instead, he glances almost bemusedly between Bilbo and Bombur, who gives him a pointed look before turning away.)

Regardless, when he rides near Bombur, Bofur, and Bifur that day, Bilbo finds that conversation comes a little more easily to all of them. Bofur's smile is impossibly wider than it has been in the past; Bifur seems just as wild as before, but his fondness of Bilbo is clear as he claps him on the shoulder and says something cheerfully in Khuzdul.

And suddenly, Bilbo finds himself hoping that maybe this adventure won't be so lonely after all.

.

.

.

.

* * *

**ii: a sorry excuse for a burglar,**

In Rivendell, he's been entranced by the waterfalls and the music and just the sheer, overwhelming  _presence_  of the elves... He's been so distracted, in fact, that it takes him longer than it should to notice that his new sword has gone missing.

He tries not to worry, because it's likely that it's only Kíli stealing it away to poke fun at "Mister Boggins"...or else it's Gandalf, having taken it to discuss important things with Lord Elrond that Bilbo can't hope to understand. He tries not to worry but thinks he's failing miserably, because Kíli has been playing dice with his brother and Bofur all evening, and Gandalf is in counsel with Thorin at this very moment, surely trying to persuade him to accept the help of the elves.

(Bilbo has his concerns about whether the dwarf's thick skull will eventually get them all killed, but knows to keep them to himself.)

He has no idea of where his blade has gone and even less of an idea of where to start looking for it, so he simply gives their quarters a cursory glance before walking out into the hallway, nodding at a curious Balin but saying nothing before he makes his way down the hall.

He's read about elves, of course; he's heard so many things about them...but nothing quite measures up to  _meeting_  them, to stepping foot within these impossibly intricate wooden halls, looking out upon the vast landscape of Middle Earth. It nearly looks like a painting, it is so perfect; if Bilbo didn't know better—

A small blade at his throat stops him dead, and his eyes widen as he backs up quickly, hand going for his sword before realizing it's still missing. Before he can properly process what is happening, before he can think to call for help or wonder who would be attacking him in the elves' home...he realizes that the knife's edge has not followed him. He looks around to see a dwarf stepping out of the few shadows in the well-lit hall, smirking at Bilbo—and holding out the hobbit's sword.

_Nori_.

"You're dead," he quips as Bilbo snatches his sword back and reattaches it to his belt. "Not much of a burglar, if you can't even stop a knife..."

Bilbo feels himself flushing  _(he's been thinking the same thing),_  but he doesn't want to back down...not in front of the dwarf he barely knows. "I never said I  _was_  a burglar. If you're making that assumption, then the consequences are entirely your own fault."

Nori hums in agreement, though his gaze isn't full of the scorn Bilbo is expecting. Instead, his eyes are calculating as he looks Bilbo up and down, and they stand in silence for several seconds longer before the dwarf nods. "Well, I'll just have to teach you then, won't I?"

"Wh—teach me what?" He's utterly blindsided by this announcement...after all, of all the dwarves in the Company, Bilbo thinks he knows Nori the least. He keeps to himself, usually only talks with his brothers—and even then, only rarely. Bilbo knows nothing about him, has barely even  _spoken_  to him...and now, he's offering to teach him...what? What does he think Bilbo could possibly learn about fighting?

Nori laughs, then—and his smile is wide, showing too many of his teeth. "You haven't heard dearest Dori complaining about my choice of profession? Dwalin isn't fond of me, either—I'm surprised word hasn't reached your ears. I'm not the most...honest worker, shall we say. I could teach you a thing or two about thieving, if you'd like to come out from under the dragon's nose alive."

_Oh._  He has indeed noticed the sideways glances from the larger dwarf, the way Dori seems to get irritable with Nori faster than he does with anyone else...he's always chalked it up to strange dwarven dynamics, but this makes perfect sense as well. And he feels a brief flash of fear  _(he's dangerous he's a criminal he could kill you right here and now)_  before shoving it down, because surely Nori wouldn't have been allowed on the quest if he were a threat? Thorin is pigheaded and stubborn, yes, but he isn't stupid. Surely, Nori means him no true harm.

So he finds himself agreeing, planning on meeting with the dwarf the next afternoon at the elves' sparring grounds. Bilbo's expecting condescension, something a little like irritation in Nori's gaze as they part ways, but he is surprised to see nothing of the sort. Instead, the dwarf is looking him over with almost an approving look, as if Bilbo's decision has pleased him in some way, like he was  _hoping_  Bilbo would want to learn to defend himself.

(He doesn't understand, because every time he's been lacking in some skill in the past, his neighbors and teachers and friends poked fun at him...taunted him for being ignorant and refused to help him as he struggled on his own. Nori doesn't seem ready to do any of that... He only seems to recognize that Bilbo does not know how to fight, has never  _had_  to know how to fight. And now that he does needs to, the dwarf will take it upon himself to teach him.)

It's a strange reaction, something he's never expected from anyone, but Bilbo finds that he doesn't mind this acceptance...not at all.

.

.

.

.

* * *

**iii: and not at all worth the effort to keep around…**

Staring down the Pale Orc on the clifftop, of course, such basic swordsmanship as he has learned by this point hardly matters.

He knows Thorin has gone still behind him, knows that killing this monster's second-in-command has guaranteed him a painful death, knows that the other dwarves are too unstable on the tree to ever hope of helping him—

He knows Thorin is going to die without a proper warrior to defend him (that he himself is going to be tossed aside like a leaf, but that hardly matters because he's only a lowly, useless hobbit—but Thorin is a  _king_ , and without him this quest cannot hope to continue), and he feels the dread settling heavy in his gut as he swings his sword wildly. Anything Nori's taught him about stance and grip flies right out of his head, his mind blanking in pure terror as Azog grins maliciously down at him.

It seems his time is up.

He's bracing himself for death even as he prepares to go down fighting, protecting Thorin for as long as he possibly can (they need him,  _he needs him,_ Fíli and Kíli will be heartbroken and the others will never forgive themselves and who is to rule Erebor if not its King under the Mountain?), hoping desperately that a miracle will fall out of the sky—

And then the screeching of the eagles fills the air, and Fíli and Kíli and Dwalin come hurtling out of nowhere with weapons aloft, and Bilbo only allows himself one glance back toward Thorin's prone form before throwing himself into the fray.

Even if he's a useless burglar, a poor fighter and not in the least bit suited for a quest of this magnitude, he'll be damned if he doesn't go down fighting to defend those he cares for most.

(And yes, he does care for them, even if the dwarves are brusque and often short with him when he shows exactly how inept he is at so many things. He cares for them, and he likes to think that they care for him as well, and are just not so very good at showing it.)

(It's probably not true, but he can pretend, at least for now.)

.

.

As it turns out, everyone is going to be all right—though Thorin is rather the worse for wear—as they stop for the day at the base of the Carrock. Thorin wants to continue until nightfall, but Óin will have none of it; he strips the king from the waist up and begins tending to the mace wound to his chest, the warg bite on his shoulder. It's not a pretty sight, and the murderous, pained look on Thorin's face is difficult to witness. Bilbo stands abruptly and volunteers himself to go gather firewood for when night falls, not waiting for a reply before making his way into the trees.

He's not sure how long he is gone…is too wrapped up in the post-adrenaline haze that's been clouding his mind since the goblin caves. Everything is crashing down on him all at once—the goblins and the creature beneath the mountain and then the orcs and wargs—he  _killed_  today, and it was his first time ever taking another sentient creature's life; it leaves a hollow, nauseous chasm in his heart that he thinks probably shouldn't be there. After all, he was protecting Thorin—protecting his  _friends_ —and he was simply eliminating a threat.

(So why has it shaken him so terribly?)

He likely spends more time in the woods than is strictly necessary, but he needs to steady his shaking hands and his ragged breathing before returning to the Company. They would only see such things as weakness, after all; none of them have so much as batted an eye after killing (surely hundreds of) goblins in what must have been a chaotic escape from the caverns. He has only just gained their favor, and such a failing is simply unacceptable. He decided to go on this quest; he is a grown hobbit, who is supposed to be able to take care of himself…and he needs to start acting like one.

(Somehow, fingering the strange golden trinket he stole from the creature gives him strength, allows him to steady his breathing and calm his mind. He does not know what it is—except that it grants invisibility—but in this moment, he is grateful for it.)

(Soon enough, any thoughts of bringing it up with Gandalf slip from his mind.)

By the time he finally returns, Thorin is bandaged and sitting rather grumpily against a tree, barking orders to the others as they set up camp. Nobody says much, but Bilbo suspects that this is due more to sheer exhaustion rather than any ill will; Ori seems to be swaying on his feet as he helps clean Óin's medical supplies, and even Bofur's cheerful attitude has been greatly muted by all that has transpired.

It's not even midday yet, but they haven't had a proper night's rest...and after the goblins and the orcs and the eagles, it's beginning to show.

Gandalf seems to notice this as well, for as Bilbo leans down to deposit the firewood, the wizard crosses the camp to stand by him, thumping his staff against the ground to get everyone's attention.

And when he tells them all to get some sleep, that he will keep watch for the afternoon, nobody argues.

Bilbo makes his way toward the nearest available space—a few feet to the left of Fíli and Kíli, who seem hell-bent on sleeping near their uncle despite his protests—and practically collapses to the ground without bothering to get comfortable. (Maybe, if he sleeps for a few hours, he'll be able to get his mind under control. The monsters and the killings and the  _sheer desperation_  he felt in his heart…maybe they'll seem far away when he wakes up.)

He's halfway asleep already before he even registers someone calling his name. After a moment, he looks up blearily to see Thorin staring over at him, a strange expression on his face… "I did not thank you," the dwarf says abruptly. "For what you did on the clifftop."

"Hmm?" It takes him a moment to process this, but when he does, he only waves a hand in Thorin's direction sleepily. "Was nothing. Anyone would've. Just go to sleep."

"That was not _nothing,_ " Thorin presses, the crease in his brow deepening even as Bilbo feels his eyes start to flutter closed again. (And he thinks he agrees with Thorin, even if he will deny it to the end of his days because  _this is exactly what he signed up for,_  and everyone has made it clear that weakness has no place in their company. He has to pretend that it was not the single most terrifying experience of his life.) "I have only been cruel to you since we left the Shire—you had no reason to—"

"Couldn't just let you die," Bilbo mutters, propping his drooping head up on a hand in a concerted effort to stay awake. (It's not really working.) "You—"

"I will not accept excuses," Thorin says, and his voice hardens momentarily before he sighs and continues, "That was a heroic act, one I could not have expected of you. And for that...I am in your debt."

But he's wrong, Bilbo thinks, despite the way he feels like  _glowing_  at the praise; had anyone else been in his position, had any of the other dwarves been able to gain enough leverage to stand from the tree in time, they would have done the exact same thing. And they would have done a better job of it, too—instead of haphazardly hacking the orc to death, they would have needed only one strike from a sword or axe or hammer...and once that was taken care of, they would not have hesitated to face down Azog to the death, to defend Thorin until only one of them was left standing.

(And he realizes, vaguely, that those same thoughts were running through his head on the cliff, that he was prepared to die in order to give Thorin a few seconds longer to live, but surely it does not mean as much, coming from him...surely, the others would have done something different, something more effective...)

He thinks Thorin is talking, his voice regretful and pained, but Bilbo is too exhausted to listen. He falls asleep, thinking of everything he  _could have_ done, rather than everything he  _did_...

(After all, he's only a lowly hobbit who can't even kill one of their enemies without agonizing over it for hours.)

(He doesn't regret chasing after them, not for a second, but he knows they cannot possibly return his affection...because in the end, he's just a soft, incompetent creature who's never had to learn to fight.)

And today, that nearly cost Thorin his life.


	2. iv — vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got impatient. Was gonna post this every other day, but am changing it to every day because why the hell not? XD
> 
> Thanks so much for the comments, kudos, and bookmarks, guys! And don't worry, the heartbreak is definitely coming soon ;D

**iv: but here is where he feels loved;**

Here, now, weeks later, he would gladly endure the feelings of inadequacy, the playful jabs at his incompetence with a sword...if only it would mean he were not so wholly and terribly  _alone._

Mirkwood is worse than the trolls, worse than the goblins and the orcs and even the creature he met in the bowels of the Misty Mountains... Mirkwood means isolation and monsters and unadulterated fear, and Bilbo thinks  _(hopes)_  that Smaug can't possibly be any worse than this, because he's sure that he's finally starting to lose his mind.

It's been five days of sneaking around the Elvenking's palace with the constant help of his magic ring, five days of desperately trying to find a way to get all of the dwarves out without getting caught... He's doing his best to survive on little to no sleep and what scraps of food he can steal without attracting the elves' attention, but the solitude is maddening, and he hasn't yet found any of his friends, and he has no idea if any of them are injured or have fallen ill from the spiders' venom—

_(And he hasn't seen Thorin since before the spiders captured the others—)_

He needs to find them—there is no question of that. He needs to find them in order to break them out because Durin's Day is looming ever-closer; if they miss this opportunity, it'll mean waiting another year before entering the mountain...and that is unacceptable.

(He doesn't even want to  _imagine_  the rage and heartbreak on Thorin's face should such a thing come to pass.)

He's the only one who can do it, and even if he's not a warrior, he's a  _hobbit,_  and Gandalf got one thing right, at least, when he said that hobbits are very good at not getting caught. It's laughably easy to pass, invisible, under the elves' notice, even with their keen ears. The only time he worries of being discovered is when he must find a corner to sleep in, because if someone accidentally trips over him...

He doesn't sleep often, though, too worried of what will become of his friends should he be captured as well. Who knows when Gandalf will catch up with them, whether even  _he_  would be able to bend the stubborn Elvenking's will...

He _cannot take that risk,_  and so he rarely sleeps, only takes enough food and water to get by...and spends every possible moment getting himself lost in the twisting passages of the palace, hoping desperately that he will find a way out.

He knows he hasn't been able to do much for this quest, hasn't been able to do much for his friends...but he can do this, at least.

.

.

He eventually finds the dwarves by carefully following the elves when they bring them breakfast. (No matter what Thorin says about them—and no matter how unjustified this imprisonment is—Bilbo can't help but be thankful that at least his friends are being fed. If they had wandered the forests for even another day on their own, he's not sure they would have survived.)

They're all underground in various storage rooms with thick, solid wooden doors—truly nothing more than cupboards, though when the doors are open, Bilbo is able to catch a glimpse of piles of cloth in the corner that might make for a decent bed. There are only twelve here, though—and Bilbo's stomach lurches at the implications before he rationalizes that Thorin is likely somewhere else, somewhere more isolated, because he is the king and surely Thranduil wants to keep a closer eye on him...

He's assured himself over and over that Thorin was not with the others in the spiders' nest because the elves captured him when he stumbled across their fire. He needs to believe this because as terrible as their situation is now...it would be so much worse had Thorin been eaten by the spiders before Bilbo arrived, had he escaped the elves only to run deeper into Mirkwood and  _(has surely starved to death by now)_  is wandering in circles, hopelessly lost and alone.

(He remembers Thorin's terrible sense of direction, but the laughs it usually causes are eclipsed wholly by the clenching horror in his gut.  _If Thorin isn't here..._ )

He has to force himself to focus on the task at hand, though, to ensure that the others are all right. The elves rarely speak of the dwarves, and when they do, it is to mock them; Bilbo has heard nothing of any of them being injured, but the lack of rations for the past week...and then the spiders...

It terrifies him (because Bombur still hasn't wholly recovered from his fall into the enchanted river, and Kíli could barely stand upright because of the poison when they were brought before Thranduil) but he knows the dwarves will only see his fear as weakness, so he swallows it down thickly and makes his way toward the nearest of his friends.

It's Óin, if he remembers correctly, and though there are thick bars near the top of the door, Bilbo can't hope to reach them—not with his stature. So he keeps his ring on, and sends one last worried glance down the hall before knocking on the door and saying as loud as he dares—"Óin?"

There's no response, and Bilbo swears under his breath when he realizes Óin has probably "misplaced" his ear horn so he will have an excuse not to speak with the elves. (Because no matter how old he is, apparently, he is not yet below such petty mischief.) "Óin," he calls, a little louder this time, and looks down the hall again before continuing, "Óin, please, it's me, Bilbo—"

There's some shuffling on the other side of the door, but Bilbo can't tell if it's because Óin recognizes his voice or because he's pointedly ignoring whoever is attempting to speak with him. Bilbo huffs and crosses his arms, trying to figure out how best to go about this, when he hears Óin's rough, incredulous voice saying from the other side— _"Halfling?"_

"Yes, it's me," Bilbo says, relief rushing through him, and he pitches his voice as loud as he dares for fear of the elves coming near. "Are you all right?"

"Bilbo!" Óin's voice is loud, as always, and Bilbo flinches as he looks down the hall again. "When the elves arrived, we thought you long gone!"

"No, I'm still here," Bilbo says quickly, and he can't help but smile at the honest joy in Óin's voice. "Sneaking around with my ring...I'm trying to find a way to get all of you out, don't worry—"

"Have you seen my brother? And the others?" he cuts him off, his voice suddenly serious. "The elves won't tell me anything about them—I'm still not convinced Bombur is well, and with the spiders' venom—"

"No, you're the first I've found," Bilbo says, feeling a sudden wave of guilt crash through him as he imagines Óin's shoulders slumping in defeat. "I'm not going to stop looking, though—I've been following the elves as they bring food, so they shouldn't be terribly hard to find."

"Aye, that's a good lad," Óin says, and Bilbo wonders if he's imagining the pride in the dwarf's voice, because surely it can't be directed at him? Not when he's taken so long to do even this simple thing... "Last I was able to check, Bombur was recovering well enough, but when you find him, make sure he's speaking properly. The tree-shaggers won't have noticed anything, so—"

Bilbo nods, though Óin cannot see him, and makes mental notes of everything—he needs to make sure they're all conscious, especially those most affected by the spiders; the others need to make sure they're not experiencing any lingering side effects—

"And are  _you_  all right, laddie?" Óin asks suddenly, finishing his spiel abruptly as his tone turns strangely concerned. "Getting yourself food and rest? These weeks haven't been easy on you, either."

_What?_  "Yes, of course I'm fine," Bilbo says, honestly confused. After all, he's not the one stuffed in a cell and forced to hope that someone else  _(unreliable at best, downright idiotic at worst)_ will be able break him out of an elven stronghold. "Don't you worry about me."

Óin hums, though he sounds unconvinced for some reason, and only says, "Well, once we're out of here, we'll have plenty to repay you with in Erebor. You're doing far more here than we could ever ask of you, and for that, you have my thanks."

Bilbo mutters something that even  _he_  doesn't understand before he suddenly hears footsteps from down the hallway. "I have to go," he hisses through the door, though he isn't sure Óin can hear him. "I'll be back as soon as I can, all right?"

Anything the dwarf says in reply is lost as Bilbo takes off down the hall, fleeing before the elf can catch his shadow flickering in the torchlight.

.

.

He finds the other eleven within the next several hours, and for the most part, they all seem to be fine...if rather melancholy from nearly a week of solitude. Bilbo does his best to cheer them up by telling them of his efforts to break them free (because even if he's feeling just as depressed himself,  _he doesn't matter—_ not so long as his friends are still suffering), and though he can't see their faces, he thinks he's succeeding, if the growing cheer in their tones is anything to go by.

And if his friends are happy, his own mental state doesn't matter to him at all.

Bombur is still a bit dazed from his fall into the enchanted river, but he's lucid enough; he assures Bilbo that he is improving every day with the constant supply of food. Bilbo can't help but laugh at that, and Bombur joins in, not at all offended. After all, food is food, right?

Kíli is recovering rapidly, something Bilbo can only attribute to his youth and vigor; some of his words slur together, and he complains of a perpetual tingling in his fingers and toes, but he seems fine otherwise...more bored than anything else. Fíli was more on edge than his brother, demanding news of Kíli's condition the moment the hobbit announced himself. Bilbo thinks it was lucky that he found Kíli first...because if he had no news to pass on to Fíli, he honestly thinks the dwarf would have torn the palace apart.

He's wandering the halls, now, having brought news back to Óin that his patients are doing as well as can be expected and reassuring him again that he himself is fine. (Why is Óin so concerned? Bilbo's not been imprisoned. He's free to wander as he chooses. There's nothing wrong with him...)

And if he's starting to hear a whispering in his mind, a voice that reminds him of all that he's done wrong and everything he could be doing better, he won't admit how much he's listening to it and starting to believe it himself. There are much more important tasks at hand, after all.

_(He needs to find Thorin_ —not for his, Bilbo's, sake, but for the others'. He needs to break them out, but first he needs to find their leader, because moving forward without him is unimaginable—)

But however much he tells himself he needs to ignore them, the whispers never stop.

.

.

The next day, after another night of no sleep, accompanied only by the ringing silence and the thoughts that don't seem to be his own...he feels particularly daring and so follows a new corridor, going deep into the fortress. He's careful to watch out for elves but allows his mind to wander, desperate to fill the silence so that the hateful voice does not overwhelm his thoughts again.

(He knows he shouldn't listen to it, knows that it is either part of the elves' defense against intruders or else part of the darkening magic of Mirkwood...but the words are strangely enticing, despite the way they cut through him like a knife.)

So he whiles away the hours imagining what Erebor is like, how the dwarves will react when they finally have returned home. He imagines that Thorin's face will split into a smile, wider even than that which he wore on the Carrock; Balin and Dwalin, the only others old enough to properly remember the mountain, will finally relax their ever-tense stances, wandering the halls with reverent expressions as they remember what once was—and, surely, what shall be again.

The others—young when the mountain was taken, or else born into exile—will be no better than Bilbo when they first step foot into the halls. He can't even imagine how massive Erebor is, and he thinks the others probably can't, either; he has no concept of a city carved inside an entire mountain, no concept of how high it climbs and how deep it burrows—

He cannot imagine it, but he does his best, and continues to allow such things to fill his thoughts as he wanders deeper into the palace. And just as he's shaking himself out of it, thinks that he should probably find his way back up before he gets too lost—and maybe, if he's daring, steal a scrap of bread and a mug of water—he hears elves coming from further down the hallway. He panics (even after all this time invisible, he worries that the ring's power will suddenly wear off) before throwing himself into a niche in the wall, listening carefully and watching the elves as they pass. There are two—guards, he thinks, if their armor is anything to judge by—and one carries a tray with a large mug and a plate of food.

It takes him a long moment of staring at the tray, dizzy from hunger and fighting against the desperation to jump out and steal it, to realize that they are too far underground to be bringing the food to the others.

_It must be for Thorin._

He takes a deep breath, allowing himself one unsteady,  _wonderful_  inhale of the scent of food—rabbit, he thinks—before carefully extracting himself from his hiding spot and following the elves down the hall. Sure enough, they come to a thick, wooden door—similar to the ones holding the rest of the dwarves—and glance in the bars at the top before unlocking it and bringing the food inside.

There are a few snarled words from within, but Bilbo is too far away to hear them properly. One of the elves says something in muffled Westron, but Thorin does not respond; soon enough, they are closing the door again and walking back the way they came, vaguely irritated expressions on their faces. Bilbo waits several minutes to ensure that nobody else is coming near before hurrying to the door, knocking on it gently.

"Thorin?"

The sounds from within the cell pause abruptly, but Thorin does not respond; after a moment, Bilbo grimaces and tries again—"Thorin, it's me, Bilbo—"

There is a loud  _thump,_  as if he's hastily set the tray of food down, and a few short steps bring Thorin to the door. "Burglar? What are you doing here?"

"Trying to find a way to free all of you," he says, and though he's trying to sound cross, he doesn't think he's succeeding; the delirious relief coursing through him drowns everything else.  _He's found Thorin;_  he's holed up in Thranduil's dungeons like the rest of the dwarves, but he is definitely, definitely  _alive._

Thorin swears under his breath before saying, his voice turning from utterly relieved to dark—"So he's imprisoned the others, as well? I've been told nothing since I was brought here a week ago—"

"Yes, and they're all fine," Bilbo says quickly, before Thorin can continue on his tirade. "They're being fed better than they would have been out in the wilderness, I daresay. If it were under different circumstances—"

"Why are you not jailed as well? Did you gain favor with the elves?" Thorin asks abruptly, and Bilbo is almost glad for the change of topic, no matter how irritated he is at being interrupted. Nevertheless, Thorin spits the idea like it is a curse all its own, and Bilbo is quick to correct him…if only to spare himself the king's wrath.

But he realizes quickly that Thorin does not know of the magic ring; he only revealed it to the dwarves after the incident with the spiders…after Thorin went missing by the elven campfire. So he explains it to Thorin briefly, skimming over the details but apparently satisfying the dwarf, for he grunts in reply and has no sharp words to rebuke such an act.

"Gandalf was right after all," he says instead, and if Bilbo didn't know better, he'd think Thorin sounds  _impressed._  "You have turned out to be quite the burglar, Master Baggins."

"That's not true, and you know it," Bilbo says quickly, though he feels his face flush and his heart swell at the praise. "I will do my best to help you, but that does not at all make me a burglar."

And if something in his chest flutters when Thorin chuckles (it's quiet and barking, but it's undeniably a laugh) and leans his forehead against the door with a soft  _thump,_ Bilbo will never admit it aloud.

.

.

When he brings news to the others that Thorin is alive and well, their reactions are about as he expected: overwhelming relief from all, and vehement demands from his nephews, Balin, and Dwalin to know whether the elves have at all harmed him. (In all honestly, Bilbo isn't sure whether to be touched by their loyalty or appalled at their mistrust of the elves.)

He spends the day passing messages between the dwarves, but once the guards start bringing their dinners, he does not dare to stay nearby. Instead, he makes his way toward the surface, thinking vaguely that maybe there will be some unattended fruit in one of the dining halls that he can snatch for dinner as his mind wanders.

The dwarves' praise and encouragement is still ringing in his ears ("I could kiss you!" "I know you'll find us a way out, Master Baggins, don't you worry for one second." "We'd be long dead without you, Bilbo—") and Bilbo realizes that he's never felt so  _alive._ His friends—for he's sure that's what they are, now—are pleased with him, even though what he's done for them has not been as fast or as excellent as it should be; they're genuinely happy when he arrives at their rooms, knocking quietly on the doors and calling their names…

For the first time since his parents passed away, Bilbo feels accepted and even  _wanted,_  and it's so strange to him…but he's slowly realizing that this is the happiest he's ever been, and he doesn't want to give this up…not ever.

He does not know how to break thirteen dwarves out of a heavily-guarded elven fortress; he does not know when his next meal will be, when he will be able to sleep for more than a few minutes, whether any of them will even live through the end of this quest (though he will do his utmost to protect them). He knows nothing of what is coming, but what he does know is enough for him…because even if he dies by the dragon's flame, he will die knowing that he is wanted and loved.

(And somehow, this is more important than anything else in Middle Earth.)

.

.

.

.

* * *

**v: here, he has found a family;**

Two weeks later, that is the only comfort he has as he is pulled down a raging river, barely keeping his grip on the empty barrel beneath him and praying to the gods to spare his life.

The barrels, he knows, were their only chance to escape…but by the time they finally arrive on the shores of the Long Lake, Bilbo is sure he will never want to see a drop of water ever again. He's dizzy and nauseous and soaked to the bone (and thinks he would eat anything at this moment, so long as it would fit down his throat). All he wants to do is curl up on the ground and let his misery overtake him—because he thinks he's done quite enough for today, thank you very much—but instead he slips his ring off his finger and moves to find the dwarves in their barrels. He needs to make sure they are all right, that none of them have drowned...

The first he finds is Thorin, who rolls out of his barrel none too gracefully, groaning quietly and clutching his stomach. Once he gets his bearings, though, he seems well enough; when Bilbo offers him a hand up, he frowns and instead pushes himself to his feet, glancing around at the beach where they have landed. Then he looks back to Bilbo, staring at him for a long moment with an unreadable expression...eventually, he only claps him on the shoulder (Bilbo feels his knees almost give out) and says a terse "well done" before moving to pull the others free.

Struggling to stay upright, Bilbo follows behind.

The other twelve are all alive but in varying states of awareness. Many of them simply lie moaning on the ground, either unable or unwilling to stand up. Fíli and Kíli—youthful as they are—flit around and help the others, even as they complain without pause of the barrels they were stuffed into.

"I hope I never smell the smell of apples again!"

"It's a good thing you got us out when you did, Mister Boggins, else we might have drowned!"

"They'd sing songs about that, wouldn't they—the mighty warriors who swore to take back Erebor, drowned like rats in a river—"

But he can't bring himself to properly listen to them...not right now. He needs to make sure that the rest of them will be all right before he allows himself to collapse onto the beach, and he can see Ori being sick into the water only a few feet away. Fighting against his swimming vision and unsteady legs, Bilbo hurries to the dwarf's side, rubbing his back and making sure everything is all right once the nausea starts to subside. The smile Ori gives him is shaky but undeniably genuine, and once he's situated himself back on the ground near his half-conscious brothers, Bilbo is ready to join them—

"Master Baggins, you're coming with us. We need to speak with the men to discuss lodging and supplies."

And so with a barely-concealed sigh of misery, Bilbo steadies himself and follows behind Thorin and his nephews.

.

.

Finally,  _finally,_  that night, Bilbo is allowed to lie still and just _stop_.

He feels like he's been going going going for the last month (because even if he's a hobbit, they were  _elves,_ and the thought of being captured by them terrified him more than he is ever willing to admit), and it's finally caught up with him. He all but collapsed at dinner, phased in and out of consciousness as Thorin and the Master of the town debated costs and compensation and other things Bilbo's hazy mind couldn't hope to follow. More than once, a concerned-looking Nori had to catch Bilbo's arm to hold him upright as the proceedings continued, and he felt far too sick to even  _think_  of touching the food the others were digging into so heartily.

Many of the dwarves looked at him with worry, in fact, and as soon as the discussions concluded for the night, Dori all but carried him to their temporary house, depositing him into a bedroom and ordering him to  _stay._

(Bilbo is still too exhausted to argue...not that he would want to, of course.)

He's not entirely sure what's going on, but he thinks Thorin and Balin and Óin have been in and out of the room, and Dwalin isn't moving from the door, and the others are begging to be let in, if the raised voices from the hallway are anything to go by. Óin is shouting questions at him (and Bilbo's confused, not because Óin is yelling, but because he can't quite make out the words), and he thinks they're asking him of food and sleep and other things he knows he didn't get enough of during their stay in the Elvenking's palace. Thorin is speaking harshly in Khuzdul—he's probably swearing, Bilbo thinks, but he can't imagine why, because didn't he get them all to safety? Why would Thorin be angry?—and Óin is barking orders to Balin, who quickly scurries out of the room.

"When was the last time you ate something, lad?" Óin says, and though his voice is still loud, it's laced with worry in a way that sends panic spiking through Bilbo's gut.

(And then he realizes that he doesn't quite know the answer, that the endless hours on the river blend together with the wooden halls of Thranduil's palace and his last meal seems so far away, now.)

(Hobbits eat seven meals a day, when they can get them. And even if he's cut back on the journey, this is far past his limits, and he knows it.)

When he shakes his head to Óin's question, Thorin swears again and punches the wall, spitting more oaths that Bilbo thinks he's lucky not to understand. Óin only mutters darkly under his breath, pushing Bilbo's still-damp hair away from his forehead to check his temperature before accepting a mug from Balin.

"Drink, Bilbo," he says, his voice a command but oddly comforting at the same time. And Bilbo offers no complaints as Balin carefully sits him up, and Óin holds the cup to his lips. He is able to swallow only a few mouthfuls before blissful sleep claims his mind at last.

.

.

When he wakes again, it is to a flurry of panic that  _he can't be caught, he can't he can't **he can't** —he has to stay awake so the elves don't find him—_

But then he remembers where he is, and sees a dozing Bifur at his bedside, and realizes that isn't a danger anymore…no matter how much his pounding heart and heaving lungs think otherwise.

(This relative calm lasts only a few seconds before he realizes how terribly his head is throbbing, how he feels chilled and uncomfortably warm at the same time, how his eyes water and his nose burns and his throat feels like someone has taken a piece of sandpaper to it—)

He begins coughing uncontrollably, doing his best to stifle it in one shaking hand. This rouses Bifur, who is immediately at his side, pounding Bilbo on the back to help clear his throat. Eventually, the fit subsides, and Bilbo finds himself lying back down (funny, he doesn't remember sitting up) as Bifur fusses over the blankets for a moment before sending him an inquiring look, gesturing briefly to the door.

_Will you be all right on your own if I get Óin?_  At Bilbo's nod, he is gone.

Of course, when Óin is alerted to Bilbo's awakening, the others are as well; as Bifur hurries in the room after the healer, Bilbo can hear the clamor of the other dwarves stampeding down the hall, excited voices echoing off the wooden walls and making Bilbo's head pound painfully.

Óin—bless him—shuts and bolts the door behind him, and Bifur takes up a position next to it as the healer makes his way toward the bed. "How are you feeling, Master Baggins?"

Bilbo considers this for a moment and comes to the conclusion that he feels better than he has since before they entered Mirkwood; Óin hums in agreement, but frowns as he checks his temperature. "Still feverish," he says, more to himself to Bilbo, and takes note of the way Bilbo is sniffing, the way he's simultaneously shivering and sweating and altogether feeling rather miserable. "Well, it's better than we could have hoped, I suppose, with everything that's happened. You've been sleeping for nearly two days, though I've been able to get some food and water down your throat."

Bilbo's eyes widen, and Bifur's muttering from by the door turns distinctly darker as Óin continues—"Some of us were ready to go back into Mirkwood to beat some sense into the elves, but Thorin and Balin have convinced them against it…for now." (He sounds doubtful, and Bilbo wonders suddenly whether Óin wasn't one of those dwarves himself.) "It's simply a relief to see you awake, even if you're ill. We've all been worried."

"Well, you know me," Bilbo says, and his voice continues to chafe against his ravaged throat as he coughs again. "A bit of water isn't going to kill me. We'll leave that for the dragon, hmm?"

Bifur barks a laugh, and Óin pats him on the shoulder with a grin. "Aye, I think that'd be best."

.

.

When Óin finally allows the others into the room,  _"as long as you're quiet and don't bother our burglar too long,"_ a whole pile of dwarves reminiscent of that first night in Bag End pulls through the door, all talking at once with wide eyes and loud voices. When Bilbo winces at the noise, Bifur growls something in Khuzdul; though they quiet somewhat, the excitement is almost palpable as the dwarves crowd around his bed.

Bilbo is surprised to see every single one of them there as they all begin talking to him at once, various degrees of concern on their faces. (To their credit, most have limited their voices to a shouted whisper.) He can't understand a word of it, and tells them so; but only when Thorin barks something in Khuzdul do the others finally quiet, looking between Bilbo and their leader with wide eyes.

"We are glad to see you awake, if not entirely well," Thorin says after a moment, inclining his head to Bilbo. "We have much to thank you for, it seems, as well as some apologies to make."

"For  _what_?" What could they possibly think they had done wrong?

"You were so thin!" Kíli blurts out loudly, before flinching and checking himself. "You were so busy making sure we were all right, but we didn't ever ask about you!"

Now, that isn't entirely fair, in Bilbo's opinion; after all, he wasn't the one facing indefinite incarceration by elves, and Óin  _had_  constantly harried him about his health. Yes, he hadn't eaten very much, because disappearing food would have alerted the elves to the fact that someone was passing undetected in their fortress… But it's over now, and they are among—if not friends, then those who do not actively seek to do them harm—and with how close they are to Erebor, such petty things will not matter after too long.

(Because either they will be rolling in riches and able to pay for any food they could ever dream of, or they will be dead—and corpses, after all, feel no hunger.)

Kíli is talking again, gesticulating wildly while the others voice their worried agreement, and though Bilbo can't quite make out what they're all saying, he doesn't think it matters. He hasn't been able to look at them— _properly_  look at them, with vision not swimming from nausea and hunger—for several weeks, now, and the simple sight of his friends alive and well, worrying for him…

He'd give up every material possession he's ever owned just to be able to feel this happiness for the rest of his days.

(And as Óin and Bifur shoo the others out, saying that Bilbo needs his rest and that they can visit him later, he starts to wonder whether he  _could,_  whether he would be allowed to stay in Erebor once this is all said and done.)

Strangely, the thought of living under tons upon tons of rock—rarely seeing the light of day unless venturing outdoors—does not seem so bad. In fact, it sounds almost  _appealing,_  because these thirteen dwarves (and their families and friends whom he has heard so much about during the journey) will be there, and they are the ones who have accepted him near-unconditionally since the very start.

Yes, he thinks he'd like to stay in Erebor very much indeed.

.

.

After Óin forces some sort of disgusting tonic down his throat and Bifur retrieves a bowl of broth and a glass of water, the two of them take their leave. Dwalin, apparently, will soon be outside his door to keep the others out so that he can rest. Bilbo wants to object, wants to tell them to allow the others in, because he thinks any kind of companionship would be preferable to the utter silence and isolation he felt in Mirkwood…

But Óin's tone brooks no room for arguments as he pushes Bilbo back against his pillow, saying in no uncertain terms that he is to  _sleep._

Instead of doing so, though, Bilbo only allows himself to continue his vague imaginings from before. The more he thinks about staying with the dwarves, the more excited he becomes about the idea; he can help them to cultivate the lands before Erebor (because from what they can see from Laketown, they are utterly desolate and barren of life); he can help initiate negotiations and alliances, if the others are willing; he can help organize the mess the mountain has surely become, can help with the renovations and the improvements and the…

He'll want to start a garden on the plains, of course. Not anything large. Just a small one, perhaps growing tomatoes and carrots like his mother had, if only to remind himself of the little he will be leaving behind in the Shire. And maybe, if he can convince the dwarves, he could even plant flowers and other decorative plants around the mountain. After all, as mighty as Erebor looked from the beach, it looks lonely and  _dead_  with no green plants to give it life.

Smaug may have taken much away from them, but it can be regained…and Bilbo wants with his whole heart to help them do so.

So caught up in his thoughts, he does not hear the gentle knock on the door, the low mutterings from Dwalin that don't quite carry, and the way the hinges squeak. In fact, he doesn't notice anything at all until the dwarf arrives at the end of his bed, fidgeting with something in his hands and smiling tentatively down at Bilbo.

"Hello, Ori," he says after a moment of pulling himself out of his thoughts, returning the smile and moving to prop himself up on his elbows. "How are you feeling?"

Ori's fingers worry the parchment he's holding as he moves to the side of Bilbo's bed, gently pushing him back down onto the mattress with unexpected strength. (Bilbo remembers suddenly that he's Dori's brother. Honestly, he shouldn't be surprised.) "I'm feeling much better," he says after a moment. "You're supposed to be sleeping, though— _you're_  still sick. Dwalin said I could only stay a moment, but I just wanted to give this to you without the others around to make fun of me for it."

His hands twist gently around the parchment for a moment longer before he holds it out, turning away as he blushes fiercely. Bilbo takes it, a little mystified, and turns it over to see a drawing done in careful ink. It's an impressive likeness of himself, in fact, and it takes Bilbo's fevered mind a moment to realize.

"You—you drew this?" he asks, and his tone is perhaps a bit more incredulous than he intends it to be.

Ori's blush deepens, and he looks up at Bilbo with almost an apologetic look as he replies, "I know it's not much, but you've done so much for us on the journey, and I thought I should do something for you in return…I'll understand if you don't want it, or…"

"What—no, no, that's not what I meant at all!" Bilbo says, waving his free hand wildly as he realizes how terrible that must have sounded. "It's beautiful, Ori. Truly. I was just surprised that you would take the time to make something for me."

"Of course," he says, sounding surprised. "You're part of the Company. Even if you're not a dwarf, you're still one of us!" (Bofur's words from months before ring in his mind, echoing Ori's…but this time, Bilbo thinks he actually believes them.) "I don't know  _how_  many times you've saved our lives…and above all, you're our friend."

Somehow, Ori's blush seems to have grown even deeper; he's fidgeting with the edges of his tunic, but his eyes meet Bilbo's steadily as the hobbit struggles to reply. In truth, it's because of the threatening lump that has started to form in his throat ( _this is truly happening—_ maybe they'll let him stay after all _)_ ; eventually, Bilbo only shakes his head and yanks on Ori's arm, pulling him down into a tight embrace.

Ori chuckles and wraps his arms around Bilbo's shoulders briefly, nodding silently in response to Bilbo's whispered thanks before eventually pulling away, clapping him on the shoulder in a familiar way before standing up.

"Dwalin will have my head if I'm in here much longer. I should go," he says ruefully as he makes his way toward the door. "Though I should warn you—Fíli and Kíli are planning on visiting later, so if you want to sleep at all today, it should be soon. They won't let you get a moment's rest."

Both of them laugh as Ori opens the door, smiling and waving at Bilbo cheerfully before Dwalin shuts it behind him. Bilbo looks over the drawing again with a wide smile before setting it carefully on the bedside table. He doesn't think he'll mind the boys' visit…not so long as they treat him with the same camaraderie as Ori did.

He doesn't think he'll mind at all.

.

.

He barely notices that the whispers in his mind, ever-present in Mirkwood, have gone silent; but when he does, he thinks nothing of it. After all, his sanity had been slowly trickling away in the darkness of the forest…hearing voices surely isn't so strange.

And while he briefly thinks of mentioning it to Gandalf upon his return, it has clearly gone now…so he decides against it when there are so many more important things to worry about.

.

And if the little golden ring in his pocket seems to be getting heavier by the hour, he tells himself it doesn't matter. After all, he's grown strangely fond of the thing, despite the fact that it holds so many of his terrible memories of Mirkwood.

He thinks it seems almost…lonely, just like he was for so many years.

(And who is he to deny another lonely soul the companionship he knows it needs?)

.

.

.

.

* * *

**vi: here, he has finally found a home.**

Erebor is everything Bilbo has ever imagined, and more.

Even standing at the base of the enormous mountain, he felt far smaller than he ever has in his life; now, standing in the piles of gold of the treasury and staring around at the endless wealth, he doesn't think he's ever seen anything so spectacular.

He knows that the treasury is only a fraction of the size of the whole kingdom…but he also knows that several Bag Ends could fit comfortably within it, nestled between the veritable  _hills_  of gold. He has never seen so much wealth before, and he thinks most of the others haven't, either…because Fíli and Kíli are simply standing, dumbstruck, in the doorway leading back to the hidden door, and Nori's eyes are wider than Bilbo has ever seen them, and Glóin is already sifting through the nearest pile, picking up handfuls of coins and then allowing them to slip through his fingers.

Thorin looks younger than he ever has, in all these long months of travel; his eyes are bright (though with tears or with youth, Bilbo does not know), and a wide, relaxed smile is growing on his face as he steps into the treasury, taking in the sight of the riches of his people.

The dragon is gone—though they do not know where—and the mountain is theirs again, and it is more beautiful a scene than Bilbo could have ever dreamed of.

_His friends are finally home._

(And if he's lucky, he is as well.)

.

.

The Arkenstone weighs heavily in his pack when he moves (heavier than the ring he bears, which is a lead weight in his pocket, now, as if struggling to join its brethren), and he knows this cannot go on forever. He has to do  _something._

Thorin is not the same, and everyone can see it. Dwalin's eyes flash every time the king orders them to search through the treasury; Ori is hesitant and jumpy around him, for Thorin's temper has reached a nigh-unbelievable shortness; even the princes, usually relaxed and unconditionally trusting of their uncle, seem to be spending as much time as possible avoiding him, fleeing to far corners of the room and whispering with each other as they pretend to sift through the gold.

Even Bilbo, who knows nothing of Thrór or Thráin or the curse of the Line of Durin, knows this is the gold sickness, and he also knows that they are all powerless to stop it.

(Men and elves march on the mountain, numbering in the thousands, and the Company is but fourteen. Thorin refuses to give them what may rightfully be theirs, and he is willing to sacrifice his family's lives to do it.)

This is not the commander that led the Company across Middle Earth to return his people to their home. This is not the king who spoke so eloquently of destiny and rightness and hope for a better life. This is not the dwarf whom Bilbo has come to call a friend, a part of his family that is only new and patchwork but still, irrevocably,  _good_.

This is not Thorin Oakenshield, but Bilbo does not know how to bring him back.

It is late at night, now (or, at least, he thinks it is, because it is impossible to tell the time when surrounded on all sides by sheets and sheets of stone), but Thorin still has not returned from the treasury, searching feverishly for the Arkenstone. Bilbo knows he will not find it there, and he is glad for it; he does not know what he is going to do with the stone (for that is all it is, in truth—a very pretty stone, but a stone nonetheless), but he knows it cannot fall into Thorin's hands, lest they lose him irrevocably to madness.

Bilbo has nearly lost his friends too many times on this journey. He will not risk their lives again.

He glances around the cold darkness of the small chamber where they have made camp. Everyone seems to be settled in for the night, or nearly so; Bombur is on watch, out on the battlements, ordered by Thorin to ensure the  _enemy_  does not attempt any trickery while they sleep. Bofur and Bifur are deep in discussion on the other side of the room, their hands flashing Iglishmêk signs so quickly that they seem to be a blur. Dori and Nori are sleeping protectively on either side of their younger brother, weapons within easy reach and deep frowns on their faces. Glóin and Óin sit next to each other, smoking and saying nothing, apparently lost in thought. Fíli and Kíli are tangled together in a pile of limbs, as they are wont to do; the elder's arm is flung protectively across the younger's chest as they both snore softly, sword and bow held in loose grips.

Only Balin and Dwalin are near enough for Bilbo to hear their conversation properly, and he thinks it is one he'd rather stay ignorant of; they only confirm what he has feared for these past days, that this is indeed the madness that took Thrór, that if they do not find a way to stop him soon…there will be bloodshed, and none of them, more than likely, will make it out alive.

(Dwalin's gaze flickers to the young ones when he says this, his voice twisted in anger and grief, and Bilbo cannot possibly imagine how it must feel to watch your brother-in-arms fall so far, to fear for the lives of those you consider your sons.)

There is not much more to be said, and soon, Dwalin stands, making his way to the treasury to try and convince Thorin to get a few hours of sleep. (All of them know it is a futile hope, but what else is there to do, when Thorin will not listen to reason or sense?) Balin, on the other hand, stands slowly and makes his way toward Bilbo, who straightens and quickly closes his pack from where he had been sorting his things, staring up at the dwarf questioningly.

"You heard me and my brother?" Balin asks quietly, and Bilbo thinks he sees Glóin's head turn toward them slightly.

"Yes," Bilbo says, because there's really no point in denying it.

Balin sighs and rubs at his eyes before seating himself next to the hobbit. "I hoped this would not happen…but I had my fears…even before we began on this quest. Thorin is a good king, but so was Thror, before the sickness took over his mind. And though the blood of Durin is strong…"

He trails off, but Bilbo does not need to hear the rest. Dwarves, he knows, are drawn to gold. It is in their very nature to seek it out and to cherish it. And Thorin, who for a century and a half has been separated from his home and his treasure…it must be like giving a starving man his feast at last. "Is there nothing we can do?"

Balin shakes his head, though there is no force behind it, and Bilbo realizes exactly how desperate their situation has become. "Thrór was never the same once the madness took hold of him. I wish we could beat sense into Thorin, but I fear the retribution he might hand out for such treason. He is mad, but he is our king; there truly is nothing for us to do."

He turns toward Bilbo with pain in his gaze, even as the inklings of a plan begin to form in the hobbit's mind. "I am sorry you have to see this, that you have been pulled into this battle. If there were a way to send you back to your home, I would spare you in an instant."

The honest despair on the dwarf's face is clear, and Bilbo can tell in this moment that Balin sees only one end to the conflict: a bloody one, a slaughter, because thirteen dwarves stand no chance against the armies of Mirkwood and Laketown. But they will follow Thorin, even to the end—even to the depths of madness that he has fallen. They will follow him because he is their king, and that is what they must do.

But Bilbo is not a dwarf. Thorin is not his king. And he will do anything— _anything—_ to save the lives of the dwarves around him. After all, they're the only ones who have made him feel truly alive.

So he nods to Balin in understanding and claps him on the shoulder before standing up, slinging his pack over one arm and looking around at the Company one last time. Dwalin, Thorin, and Bombur are still missing, but the other ten dwarves are here. And though half are asleep, unaware of his scrutiny, he drinks in the image, imprints it on his mind, because he thinks it likely that he will never see them again.

Glóin stares at him for a long moment before nodding slowly, turning away toward his brother. Balin only asks where he is going, though there is no true force behind it, and Bilbo easily answers that he simply wants some fresh air.

He walks away on shaking legs, walks away from the only family he's had in decades, because this is the only chance they have to stop Thorin—stop the brewing battle—before it is too late for any of them.

(He doesn't expect to live through the morning. He'll either be killed by those on the plains or executed as a traitor by the dwarven king…but he doesn't care. Nothing matters anymore except sparing his family's lives.)

The ring in his pocket weighs him down as he greets Bombur on the battlements, and the Arkenstone feels like Erebor itself is on his back as he slips down the mountainside toward the camps of men and elves. When he slips the ring onto his finger and pulls the stone from his pack, the long-forgotten murmurs of a voice not his own resurface; but he forces them down and away, because he cannot listen to them right now. He has more important things to attend to.

And when he approaches Bard and Thranduil, who are deep in discussion in the center of camp, he does not let himself look back to the mountain to remember what he has lost.


	3. vii — viii

**vii: maybe, he thinks, he can at last find happiness.**

The last thing he remembers is the eagles soaring into the battle…before there is a sharp pain on the back of his head, and all turns dark.

.

.

When he wakes, the land is eerily quiet, and the air smells of blood and orc and death. His skull is pounding and the whole world seems wrong, bleached of color and movement and  _life_ —and Bilbo wonders suddenly whether he's died, whether the battle did not fall in their favor and the orcs slaughtered every last living creature, swarming through Erebor like they did Moria—

_(no don't think like that of course they're fine, they're all fine, no god would be so cruel as to rip them away from their hard-earned reward)_

—and so he forces himself to his feet, swaying dangerously before steadying himself on what might be a spear. His vision is spinning and his legs threaten to give out beneath him, but he perseveres through the plains, uncaring of what he steps in or on or over, caring only to make it to the mountain to ensure that his friends are alive—

"Burglar?  _Bilbo!_  Is that you? Take off the damned ring, we've been searching for you everywhere —"

Bilbo hears a voice before him that he thinks might be Dwalin's, but it takes him a moment to realize what the words and the thundering footsteps mean. After a moment, there are hands grasping at his head, down to his shoulders and there they catch him in a vice grip. That voice continues to yell things at him that make his head pound and his vision swim…but he doesn't understand a word of it.

Eventually, he realizes that he is still wearing the ring and that's why Dwalin isn't looking directly into his eyes, is instead looking halfway up his forehead, and he fumbles toward his right hand for a moment before finally pulling off the ring. Dwalin's eyes snap to his own before he begins checking him over for injury, patting down his sides and his stomach to ensure that he is all right.

"M'fine," Bilbo tries to insist, but he's not sure the words come out right, because Dwalin only looks at him for a moment before lifting him bodily into the air. There is a distinct limp to the dwarf's gait as he makes his way toward the mountain, and a great slash across his forehead is bleeding into his eyes, but he seems otherwise uninjured, focusing entirely on the hobbit in his arms and the camp he is making for.

"Wha' happened?" Bilbo asks, though he's not sure how coherent he is or whether Dwalin can even understand him at all. (His head hurts  _so terribly._ ) "S'everyone okay?"

Dwalin does not answer for a moment, and Bilbo is weighing the risk of being sick against opening his mouth again until the dwarf finally says—"The battle was won. All in the Company are still alive, though some are more injured than others."

That, at least, is a small comfort to him…even if the crushing guilt of not preventing the battle altogether is weighing on his heart. "Who—?" he starts, but the nausea heaving in his stomach has him snapping his mouth shut again.

Dwalin seems to understand, though, for he says, "Thorin and Fíli are wounded, but not dangerously."

Bilbo thinks he should be reassured by this, but he has no idea what is classified as a "not dangerous" wound to the hardened warrior. It could mean anything from a few broken bones to stab wounds that missed vital organs, and he thinks he won't be able to relax properly until he sees everyone with his own eyes, is able to make sure that they will not die because of his own failure.

(He should realize that if either were at death's door, Dwalin would be at their sides, not out searching for their missing hobbit—but his head is pounding, and such facts elude him. All he wants to do now is sleep.)

"Keep your eyes open," Dwalin's gruff voice barks, cutting through the haze he's settled into and pulling him back to consciousness. "You've hit your head—you need to be awake for the healers to tend to you."

Bilbo isn't sure his own head wound is as important as others'—because, surely, many are critically injured after the horrific battle, and waiting to heal them may mean the difference between life and death—but he can't find the words to argue the point. So he simply settles his splitting head against the bloodied armor covering Dwalin's chest, focusing on the dwarf's breathing and his uneven steps in order to stay awake.

The camps are chaotic, blurs of color and sound that muddle together in Bilbo's mind and make his head throb painfully. Tall beings—elves, maybe, because they seem to exude a light all their own—rush by in great numbers, flitting between the overcrowded tents and those sitting on the ground outside. Soon enough, Dwalin ducks through the flap of a tent, which dims the noise somewhat and leaves in Bilbo's line of vision a much more manageable view.

Two cots are contained here, both holding dwarves swathed in bandages but moving sluggishly. He thinks he should recognize them—should be able to put names to these blurred faces—but before he can push his mind through that process, he is handed off to another's arms and seated on the edge of one of the cots. There is an unfamiliar face peering into his own, and several voices shouting to each other across the tent, and he does his best to understand what is going on around him, if only to obey Dwalin's orders.

It's an elf in front of him, he thinks, because the hair is impossibly well-groomed and the tips of the ears look pointed. He prods at the back of Bilbo's head, muttering something to himself before straightening, calling something out before turning back to Bilbo.

"Can you hear me, Halfling? You need to stay awake until we can treat your head."

He tries to nod, but it sends a jolt of pain through his skull again, so he may just end up wincing. The elf is swiftly gone, replaced by another face—one he should recognize—the head covered not in a steel helm but a floppy-eared hat. The dwarf has a firm grip on his shoulders, his eyes wide as he says something to Bilbo in an urgent tone…but as hard as he might try, he cannot understand the words.

He's doing his best to focus on the face before him, but apparently it's not enough, because the dwarf shakes him violently before slapping him across the face, his voice growing louder.  _Bofur,_  Bilbo thinks vaguely. That's his name. His head is pounding worse than it has in all his life, though, and as hard as he might try (because Dwalin is his friend—and so is Bofur, and so are all the others in the Company—and he needs to listen to them and do what they say) he simply  _cannot stay awake._

The guilt he feels in his heart is only barely overwhelmed by the relief of slipping into unconsciousness at last.

.

.

When he next wakes, his head is pounding, but not as terribly as before; when he looks around, his vision is finally clear. He realizes that he feels no nausea, so he tentatively props himself up on his elbows, taking a better look at his surroundings.

He's in a tent, apparently, which he remembers a bit of from the last time he was awake. He's lying on a stiff cot with a blanket draped across him, and he can see no bandages on his body besides those he supposes must be on his head. He's not terribly injured, then—should be fine soon enough.

There is another cot a few feet away, holding a still, fair-haired dwarf whose bare chest is wrapped in bandages.  _Fíli,_  Bilbo's mind supplies, and he panics for a moment at the dwarf's state before remembering that Dwalin said he is not seriously injured. Sure enough, he can see the boy's chest rising and falling steadily, and it is soon clear that he is simply asleep.

Kíli is snoring softly at his brother's bedside, slumped on a crude chair with one hand fisted in the blanket covering Fíli and the other wound tight in a sling. Bilbo smiles at the sight before remembering with a start that Thorin was injured as well; but when he looks around the tent again, he sees no sign of the king.

_Perhaps he will not stand to be in the same room as me,_  Bilbo thinks suddenly, and as terrible as the idea is, it is not outside the realm of believability. After all, the last time he saw Thorin, they did not part kindly; as the others looked on with varied expressions of disbelief and horror, the dwarf banished Bilbo from Erebor, forbidding him from ever returning.

The sound of Thorin's voice—usually gruff, but then harsh and utterly unforgiving—even now cuts through Bilbo like a knife, and he cringes into himself as he wonders just how long it will be before the healers deem him well enough to travel. Surely, Gandalf or Dwalin or one of the others has convinced Thorin to tolerate his presence until his head has healed; but once he has recovered, Bilbo holds no doubt in his mind that he will be sent back to the Shire without a chance to explain himself.

He knows it is nothing less than he deserves, that if he wanted to keep his friends, he should not have betrayed them so horribly…but he was desperate, and a terrible battle was looming, and he did not know what else to do.

That's why he is so terrible of a friend, he supposes. He thinks himself worthy of such wonderful companions, but in reality, he is not good enough to even ask them the time of day. They are dwarves: warriors, fearless, heroic and strong; he is only a simple hobbit, who knows nothing of their way of life and, ultimately, does not belong in it at all.

(He is steeling himself for the inevitable dismissal when someone next enters the tent, because surely, Thorin will want to check on his nephews and will lay his final word down before Bilbo…)

(And who is he to refute the law of a dwarvish king?)

.

.

Soon enough, the tent flap opens, and Thorin walks in gingerly, aided by a cane and followed closely by Dori. Bilbo has laid down again, allowing his mind to whirl endlessly through scenarios involving a now-impossible life within the mountain…but he looks up when the dwarves enter, and quickly averts his eyes when he sees who it is.

Dori helps Thorin to his sleeping nephews' side before stepping toward Bilbo, his face relaxing ever so slightly from its perpetual scowl when he sees him staring back. "Master Baggins! It's wonderful to see you finally awake!"

Thorin stiffens and glances over from where he is smoothing Fíli's hair from his face, but says nothing as Dori continues, "How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you," Bilbo says despite his still-roaring headache, and he pointedly avoids looking over at Thorin so he doesn't have to see the anger that is surely on his face. "Is everyone else all right?"

"Fíli broke several ribs, and Thorin truly shouldn't be walking quite yet with his wounds," Dori replies, and though he glances sternly over to the other dwarf, there is nothing but pure relief in his gaze. "Nobody else is seriously injured, though, thank Mahal. The battle could have easily gone much worse."

Bilbo hums in agreement, keeping his gaze fixed somewhere between Dori and Fíli's cot so he doesn't have to look anyone in the eye. It is truly a miracle that none in the Company were killed; he saw so many fall on the battlefield that he was sure at least some of them had…

He thinks he can hear Kíli mumbling something, half-awake, and Thorin's rumbling voice answering softly, but he cannot make out the words. Instead, he chances a glance up at Dori, who has seated himself on the edge of Bilbo's cot, worrying restlessly with the basket of bandages from the floor. "How is your head? Is your vision all right? You gave us quite the fright when you fainted on Bofur the other day; we've all been worried…"

"It hurts," he concedes, because there's truly no point in lying about that, "and I don't think I should try getting up, but I feel fine, otherwise."

(He hopes Thorin hears, that maybe he will grant him a few more days with his friends before he is forced to leave. After all, if he can't even stand up, it would be near-impossible for him to even mount a pony, let alone travel back to the Shire.)

(He only has to hope that Thorin cares about such things, caught in the throes of the gold sickness as he surely still is.)

Dori nods, sitting Bilbo up carefully to check the back of his head, prodding lightly and tutting when the hobbit winces. "I believe you've stopped bleeding, but you still hit yourself pretty hard. Óin or one of the other healers should check, but I'd say you're healing rather well. Should be up and about in no time!"

He's clearly pleased by this announcement, and Bilbo does his best to seem happy as well. He can't tell whether Dori wants him gone as much as Thorin does, or if he just doesn't realize what will happen when Bilbo is well again… He was never the closest to the older dwarf, but he's always felt that, given time, they could come to appreciate each other's sense of propriety rather well. But even after the disaster with the Arkenstone, he can't imagine that Dori would honestly want him gone…

_(unless the gold sickness has spread—they're all dwarves, after all—)_

He doesn't let himself think about this, though—he won't allow himself to break down until Dori and Thorin are gone, until he is alone and won't make a fool out of himself in front of anyone. If they hate him for what he did—and he wouldn't blame them—surely, their opinion of him couldn't fall any lower, but…

Even if they're going to force him to leave, he'll make sure he departs with some semblance of his pride yet intact.

.

.

Dori and Thorin leave soon enough, the shorter dwarf saying something about getting the king's bandages changed. Bilbo is still wide awake, and waves a hesitant goodbye to Dori as the dwarves take their leave.

(He avoids really looking at either of them, terrified of rousing Thorin's barely-concealed anger… And because of this, he misses the way Thorin's face falls—not in ire, but in confusion and distress. Neither of the dwarves says anything, though; Dori only shakes his head before gently pushing Thorin outside.)

Bilbo does not notice this, but Kíli does; the dwarf, now fully awake, stares after his uncle with a deep crease between his brows before turning to the hobbit.

"Mister Bo—Bilbo? Are you all right?"

The suddenness of Kíli's address startles Bilbo, who had thought him still asleep, and had been preparing for a well-controlled mental breakdown. "Yes, of course I am," he says after a moment, reluctantly rolling over to face the two brothers. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You—you didn't look at Thorin, even once," Kíli says quietly, and his face is strangely solemn as he seems to study Bilbo. "He's not—he's back to normal, now. Since the battle. He feels horrible about what happened. He even gave up his cot to let you stay here, even though the healers didn't want him walking around…"

Bilbo's eyebrows shoot up, and for a moment he's not sure how to reply to this. Surely, Kíli thinks he is telling the truth—because the boy is a terrible liar—but he can't imagine that Thorin would just forget everything of what happened…not after he, Bilbo, stole the Arkenstone from its rightful owner…

"You should try to talk with him," Kíli continues, and Bilbo can see in his eyes the stubbornness that seems to run in his line. (And, well, maybe there's some desperation there as well…but Thorin  _is_  the boy's uncle, after all.) "Give him a chance to explain and apologize. Please…I know you think he doesn't deserve this, but he's a better person than you think."

Something strikes Bilbo as strange about the implications behind this statement, but he only realizes what it is after a moment of staring blankly—"You're not—are you not angry with me? For not being able to stop the battle…?"

" _What?_ " Kíli looks honestly shocked at the question, his free hand clenching the blanket covering his still-sleeping brother. "Bilbo, it would have happened anyway—with the orcs… You stalling the battle was the reason they didn't arrive to see us all killing each other." His gaze flickers down to his brother's bandaged chest. "You're the only reason we're still alive."

Something swells in Bilbo's gut at this statement, something like hope and joy and pride; Kíli truly believes this, is not upset with him for messing things up so horribly…and if  _Kíli_  believes it, then maybe the others do as well.

_(Maybe this will turn out all right._ )

(The cynical part of his mind, the one hardened by years of rejection and loneliness, thinks that perhaps it will not. After all, Kíli is only one dwarf, and he is young; it's entirely possible the others don't feel the same way.)

"Of course I'll talk to Thorin," Bilbo says at length, smiling shakily over at Kíli despite his misgivings. "I just want all of this to be over, same as you."

And when Kíli smiles hugely back, relief almost  _radiating_  from him, Bilbo thinks he'd give up everything he has just to make all his friends this happy for the rest of their lives.

.

.

Fíli wakes up later, clearly in pain but too grumpy and stubborn to admit it to either Kíli or Bilbo. Whatever squabble could have broken out between the brothers (as Kíli had retrieved a draught to dull the pain as soon as his brother showed signs of waking, and Fíli vehemently denies that he needs it) is stopped abruptly as the tent flap opens, and Thorin walks in again.

Kíli stills immediately, glancing over to Bilbo before returning his attention to his uncle. Fíli, ignorant of his brother's conversation with the hobbit, only waves at Thorin and asks after his well-being.

"I'm feeling much better," Thorin acknowledges, giving his nephews one of his rare smiles before nodding at the draught in the younger's hand. "I think you will want to drink that, Fíli, before the pain gets any worse."

Kíli grins triumphantly and carefully helps his disgruntled brother sit up, handing him the small mug. Fíli, though he clearly wants to argue the point, does not dare to do so.

Now that Bilbo is forcing himself to watch Thorin, he realizes that the dwarf sends him a glance every several seconds. Though he's not entirely sure he recognizes the emotions on his face, it is still remarkably clear and alert. So, just as Kíli claimed, the gold sickness has left him…

(Which is a good thing, of course, but how much of it does he remember? How upset is he at Bilbo's betrayal?)

Thorin does not seem about to say anything to Bilbo, is busy helping Fíli settle comfortably against the cot again. Bilbo isn't sure he's brave enough to start a conversation, but Kíli sends him a pleading look over his uncle's shoulder, and he knows he must.

So he summons up the last dregs of his courage, swallows heavily, and says, "Thorin?"

The dwarf jerks so abruptly that Fíli yelps in shock, and Kíli quickly takes over the care of his brother as Thorin turns to face Bilbo. He's almost scared of what he will see: rage, despite Kíli's reassurances, that he is being addressed by the one who betrayed him…

But instead there is only something like confusion there, as if he's surprised that Bilbo is addressing him at all. So before his courage can fail him, Bilbo blurts out, "I know what I did was idiotic and wrong and you have no reason to forgive me, but—"

Fíli is staring at him with wide, astonished eyes, and Kíli looks almost pained as Thorin jerks again, his face contorting strangely before he cuts Bilbo off—"You have nothing to apologize for, Burglar. You did only what you thought was right, and you very well may have changed the tide of the battle. If anything, it is I who should be apologizing."

That is quite true, of course—Bilbo can still feel the ghosts of Thorin's fingers as they wrapped around his arms, as they threatened to throw him to his death down the side of the mountain—but he considers it to be in the past now. He is fine, and everyone in the Company will be fine. The gold sickness has surely left the line of Durin for good.

He knows he can ask no more than that.

He wants to say this, to alleviate the pain now so clear on the dwarf's face, but he does not have the words to do so. Instead, he only shakes his head and says, "It doesn't matter to me, as long as everyone is all right. You've all returned to your home in one piece, and for that I am grateful…even if I turned out to be nothing more than a miserable, undersized burglar."

Fíli and Kíli wince as Bilbo throws Thorin's own words back at him, though he does not mean it maliciously. After all, it is true; he was surely of some help on the quest, but if he had done so many things differently—had broken them out of Thranduil's prisons earlier, or had not been so ill in Laketown, or had not waited so long to try and stop the looming battle…surely, none of this horror would have been wrought at all.

Thorin, strangely, does not react to the words, and Bilbo wonders suddenly whether he remembers much of what he said while in the throes of madness…whether he remembers the morning on the battlements at all.

He decides that he does not want him to.

"I am in your debt, Master Baggins," Thorin says suddenly, and his voice is strangely low and gruff as he bows his head. "Know that anything I said—anything that happened these past weeks, in the mountain, I meant you no harm. I was not…in my right mind, and I deeply regret anything that may have happened while my grandfather's sickness took hold of me."

Bilbo, rather startled, can only bow his head in return and mutter an "of course" in reply.

.

(Which, he realizes hours later, is not a proper absolution at all.)

.

.

.

.

* * *

**viii. but he should have known it would not last.**

Bilbo is given permission to wander soon enough, only a few days after his conversation with Thorin. Fíli is still confined to his bed, grumbling about how others with similar injuries have not been so restricted… But after Bilbo hears the full story—that he shielded Thorin from Azog's mace with nothing but his own armored body, and that the dwarves were forced to convince Thranduil himself to help mend the shattered bones—he thinks Óin and the others are right to keep him immobile.

(He will never say it to Kíli or Thorin, but he thinks the boy is lucky to be alive at all.)

He spends his time wandering the camp, running errands when needed and checking up on the other members of the Company. Several have broken bones or minor wounds, but none are as severe as Fíli's; most of them have begun helping with the monumental task of clearing the battlefield, of unblocking Erebor's gate so those who are well can begin making camp within the mountain.

After all, winter is fast approaching, and the sooner the wounded can be brought inside, the better their chances will be for survival.

Bilbo has not the stomach to assist with moving the dead bodies—burning those of orcs and wargs, and laying out those of men, elves, and dwarves for their final rest—but he does his best to be useful in other ways. And though he rarely sees any of the Company, he likes to think that their cheerful words, their merry waves, mean that they are not angry with him, just as Kíli is not.

(And if Thorin is truly repentant, maybe he will yet be allowed to stay.)

He does his best to pull his own weight, even if he often gets dizzy spells from lingering headaches and has to stop working for a moment. When the gates to the mountain are finally cleared enough to start moving in, he is one of the first to go inside, scouting with the dwarves to determine which areas are most livable and where needs the most renovation.

The living quarters are mostly untouched, except by time, for Smaug had no interest in them; it is quickly decided that the accessible rooms will be divvied up between the dwarves who are planning on staying in the mountain. Somehow, Bilbo ends up with his own small suite, near those of the rest of the Company, and finds himself dropping his pack and his sword onto the impossibly dusty floor.

The mattress is surely destroyed, and the sheets are threadbare, and the sheer amount of  _stone_  still astonishes him…but looking around the room, he realizes that this is  _home._ Soon enough, he thinks, he will come to love it more than he ever loved the Shire.

(He will miss Bag End, of course. He will miss the beautiful home that his father built for his mother so many years ago. He will have to write to his neighbors, tell them that he will not be coming back and to give his house to one of his relatives—anyone but the Sackville-Bagginses. He will want to retrieve some trinkets, some keepsakes that will remind him of where he grew up…)

But here, Erebor, is his home now, and he does not regret his choice for one second.

.

.

He thinks that maybe it's because he never truly socialized in the Shire, never had a desire to interact with so many of his neighbors and acquaintances at the same time…but as renovation of Erebor truly gets underway, Bilbo is rather overwhelmed by the sheer number of  _dwarves._

Certainly, there aren't many in the mountain at all, though more have come from the Iron Hills to offer help (and a raven has taken the message to Ered Luin that the mountain has been reclaimed)…but many congregate in the same areas, leaving Bilbo rather breathless when he gets caught up in the middle of them.

Usually, though, someone from the Company is by his side, keeping him close and guiding him through the labyrinth of hallways that make up the mountain. Though most of them have no memory of Erebor, the dwarves seem to have an intrinsic sense of  _home_  here, and walk the halls as if they have lived here all their lives.

Dwarves, he decided long ago, are strange creatures, who can hear the stone singing to them, guiding their way… Bofur tried to explain it to him once, but Bilbo did not understand. He doubts he ever will.

(But he's decided it doesn't really matter. He will do his best to learn their ways, as long as they will let him.)

Fíli is finally allowed to leave his bed a couple of weeks later, and spends every possible moment avoiding Óin and Thorin and anyone else who will tell him to  _take it easy, your ribs are still tender_  and  _if you break them again, there will likely be little we can do._  Of course, this means that he spends much of his time guiding Bilbo through the less-occupied parts of the mountain, one hand held to the wall, his gaze far away as he recounts tales of old told to him as a child.

Though the boy was born nearly a century after Erebor was lost, he speaks as if he has known it all his life…and Bilbo knows, beyond a doubt, that he will make a great king when his time comes.

Today is one such day of wandering, when Kíli and many others have been called away to begin the excavation of the throne room. Fíli, still too injured to do any sort of heavy lifting, and Bilbo, too weak, have been left to their own devices for the morning. Bilbo would be content to wander in silence, basking in the presence of one of his friends…Fíli, however, sees fit to fill it with idle chatter—gossip he has heard from the others, news of the latest excavation, asking how much longer does Bilbo think it will take those from the Blue Mountains to arrive, now that so many of the orcs and goblins from the Misty Mountains have been killed?

"Our mother will be one of the first here, of course—she won't give up an opportunity to beat Thorin senseless for worrying her. Or for putting us into danger, for that matter," he says thoughtfully, throwing a small grin to Bilbo. "She can be pretty terrifying when she wants to be. Even Thorin listens to her, most of the time. I think you would like her."

Bilbo laughs and agrees, and makes a mental note to seek out their mother—Thorin's sister—once the caravans arrive. If there is anyone in Middle Earth who can intimidate Thorin Oakenshield, he would certainly like to meet her.

"Gimli and his mother—Glóin's family, that is—will probably be here, as well. Gimli was so angry when he wasn't allowed to come with us!—I wish you could have seen his face, he threw a tantrum for a week and Glóin still said he was too young. And Bombur's family will be here as well—they might take longer, though, because some of them are small… He has more children than he knows what to do with, I think, but they're cheerful enough when they're not terrorizing everyone by running underfoot—"

Bilbo laughs along and allows Fíli's words to flow over him, surrounding him with such a sense of warmth and  _family_  that sometimes, he finds it hard to breathe. Even if he is a hobbit—is not a dwarf in any sense—he has been accepted by the Company into their family and their home, and he knows, beyond a doubt, that he has never felt this way before in his entire life.

His parents, of course, were wonderful. He could not ask for a better family than they provided. But the rest of them—the Tooks and the Bagginses and everyone else in the Shire—have never seemed… _real_ , to him. None of them have ever been so genuinely happy to see him as these dwarves have, time and time again; none of them have ever shown true worry for his well-being, have never spoken with him so casually…

His parents did, of course, but they are long gone…and he thinks his mother would have been impossibly proud of him, had he announced that he was going on a dangerous adventure with thirteen dwarves and a wizard. His father would have harrumphed around the house for a few hours but eventually broken down, seeing him off with a proud, pleased smile and promising to have dinner ready the moment he decided to return.

His parents, Bilbo thinks, would have approved of his newfound family…and that is all the encouragement he needs to decide that he will stay.

.

.

When an unfamiliar dwarf finds them some hours later, rather out of breath and announcing that Thorin wishes to speak with both of them, Bilbo cannot believe his luck. Here, he has the perfect opportunity to announce his intentions to Thorin; as King under the Mountain, of course, he will make the final decision. And while in such a cheerful mood, Bilbo cannot help but think that Thorin will agree without question.

Fíli is suddenly somber next to him, but Bilbo cannot imagine why; so he decides not to think about it, simply following behind the two dwarves as they lead the way to what is surely the throne room.

Bilbo is sure he's ever seen anything quite like this chamber before; even the great halls of Rivendell cannot compare. It completely dwarfs the treasury, and though much of the beautiful architecture has been reduced to rubble by the dragon's wrath, some remnants still remain. Bilbo can scarcely keep his eyes on where he is walking as they enter the room, and more than once, Fíli has to grab him by the shoulder with a low chuckle to prevent him from falling into the abyss below.

They eventually arrive at the throne; while surely a shadow of its former glory, it seems to radiate a life all its own as Bilbo looks up to see Thorin standing from it. He can see a clasp above the seat, where surely the Arkenstone once sat…but now it is empty, and Bilbo wonders where the stone has gone.

(He decides he simply does not want to know.)

He wonders suddenly whether he should bow, or kneel, or do anything ceremonial…as Thorin, after all, is a king, and he is nothing of the sort. But while the messenger bows low and steps to the side, Fíli does not, and his grip on Bilbo's shoulder does not loosen. He takes this as a message to stay where he is, and only watches as Thorin makes his way toward them, the rest of the Company close behind.

He looks young—young and happy, Bilbo decides, despite the fact that this room, surely full of so many memories, has barely been restored. The throne itself has been cleared, as well as the pathway leading to it; but everything else, the minor walkways and the pillars and the beautiful statues, are still in disarray everywhere Bilbo looks.

He decides that Thorin must simply be happy to be here at last, to be standing in the halls of his forefathers. Bilbo cannot blame him.

"Burglar," Thorin greets, his gaze guarded as always but his lips turning up into the smallest of smiles. "I hope my nephew has not turned you deaf with all of his chattering of late."

Bilbo feels Fíli jerk slightly next to him, can imagine the blush creeping across the boy's cheeks, and he laughs and shakes his head. "Of course not. Fíli and I get along quite well, I think."

Thorin nods, his eyes showing a bit of amusement as he glances at his nephew, though there is something strangely like pity there as well. But then he turns his attention back to Bilbo, the mask falling back into place—

"I have called you here, Master Baggins, to give you your long-overdue reward for your help on our journey. There is yet much work to be done in the mountain, but we can offer you this much: however much of Erebor's treasure you may carry back to your home, and safe passage through the forests of Mirkwood. I am sure Gandalf will be willing to escort you the rest of the way, should you only ask…unfortunately, we are stretched thin enough as it is, and cannot spare any dwarf for the journey." He inclines his head. "If you require anything more of us before you return to your home, you need only ask."

Bilbo, expecting something else entirely, is thrown by Thorin's rather lengthy speech, by the formality of his words. He can feel Fíli's grip on his shoulder tightening, can feel the young dwarf's tremors, and somehow that grounds him…allows him to work through what Thorin said.

And when he realizes, his whole world grinds to a halt.

_They're sending me back to the Shire._

He's been dismissed—has been cast away from the only true family he's had in years. He saw the dwarves as his friends, his closest companions despite their cultural and racial differences; he saw them as…something more than simple traveling partners…

But Thorin has made it clear in only a few moments that they do not feel the same way. They never have. Of  _course_  they haven't; how could he have been so stupid? He was only ever Bilbo Baggins: the occasionally reliable burglar who Gandalf coerced into coming along to help slay a dragon. He was only ever the strange, fussy hobbit who did not understand their ways; they already had so much family, so many friends…why would he ever think they would want another?

(He's been desperate, that's what it is—he was so desperately lonely that he saw things that were not there, saw relationships formed when he was only ever a means to an end—)

He is not wanted by any of his friends, and the crushing reality of what is happening hits him so hard that he almost physically stumbles backward.

He's alone again.

Just like always.

(Isn't this always how it ends? He's never been good enough for anyone, after all.)

He realizes that Thorin is probably waiting for some kind of response, but he cannot even find the air to breathe; he knows he will never be able to string together enough words to express what he wants to say. He wants to ask them  _why,_  ask Thorin and Fíli and all the others how he has been a poor friend, what he has done wrong that makes him so unlovable…he wants to know so that maybe he can fix it, correct that part of himself, because he is just  _so sick_  of never being good enough that he thinks he will do anything they want, if only to make them accept him.

He wants to say all of this but cannot find the words, so he only falls back on the manners he learned in the Shire ( _he's going back there to live, alone,_ and the thought terrifies him more than every terrible thing on this quest put together) and manages to say, "Of course. Thank you for everything you have done for me, over these past months."

He doesn't remember making his way back to his— _the dwarves'_ —chambers; all he remembers is the way Fíli's hand leaves his shoulder as if scalded, and the way Thorin's face almost seems to crumple before he saves his composure, and the way none of the rest of the Company will meet his eyes as he flees the room with as much dignity as he can muster.


	4. ix — x

_._

_._

_._

_._

* * *

_{so now we're back to the beginning—or, rather, the end—}_

* * *

.

.

.

.

* * *

**ix. (after all, he's never meant anything to anyone…)**

Somehow, he finds his way back to his rooms (they're not his, not anymore, because he's been cast out and  _he's not good enough, he's **never**  been good enough_), but instead of packing his meager belongings he simply collapses onto the bed in the middle of the room. It's musty and creaky and, frankly, not in the least bit comfortable; but after months of sleeping on the hard ground, it feels like the softest feather bed Bilbo has ever laid on.

Now, he will never be able to use it again.

He does not know how long he lies there, but he knows his thoughts are spiraling darker and darker as time goes on, and sleep constantly eludes him. He slowly begins to lose awareness of his surroundings, but he does not fall unconscious, because dark and terrible thoughts are roaring through his mind, worse even than when he was in Mirkwood.

He wants to splash water on his face, rub at his eyes until the voice quiets at last, but he knows that the last shreds of sanity holding him away from these whispers (they are not whispers anymore, though; now, they are the screams of a gigantic beast) were the dwarves he thought to be his friends. Now that he does not have even that, he sees no reason to fight against the foreign thoughts.

(No one will miss him if he never returns to the Shire. No one will care if he dies, here, in Erebor. So why should he care at all?)

.

.

The next conscious thing he knows is a light knocking on the door, which dulls the voice ever so slightly and makes him look up. After a moment, the rusty hinges squeak open, and Glóin and his brother file in, carrying great trunks that are surely full of gold. They seem to hesitate a moment, as if not sure where to put them, but when Bilbo gives them no direction they simply deposit them near the door. Óin hesitates a moment before sighing heavily and leaving the room.

 _Wishes I were gone already, no doubt._  Hobbits are not as sturdy as dwarves, after all, and Óin had to tend to him more than any other on this journey. Surely, he is sick of Bilbo by now.

Glóin, however, does not leave immediately. Eventually, Bilbo looks up again to see the dwarf staring at him with a deep crease in his brow, as if trying to discover something or to make a decision…

The dwarf has never been good with words—like many of his kin, Bilbo knows, he prefers to fight through problems rather than think. (He remembers Fíli's words—so far away, now, though it was scarcely hours ago—that his son raged for a week when he was not allowed on the journey. The mental image of a miniature Glóin throwing a temper tantrum almost brings a smile to Bilbo's face, because it is not difficult to imagine at all.)

 _No, he can't think about that now._  Instead, he focuses on what Glóin could possibly want from him after he and his kin so abruptly rejected him. He keeps his eyes away from the treasure—he  _hates_  it, he thinks, more than anything else in Middle Earth—and does his best to focus on Glóin despite his hazy vision and his suddenly pounding head.

"Do you need anything else?" Glóin asks at length, his eyes curiously soft as he looks at Bilbo. "For the—journey home. We'll be happy to provide whatever you need."

Bilbo starts to shake his head (anything he takes with him will remind him of Erebor, and even if he is to be accompanied by Gandalf, he thinks such things would drive him mad before they even reached the mountains), but then—"Could I have—a couple of days to prepare? I need to…gather my things, make plans with Gandalf…"

 _(say goodbye,_  but he's not sure he'll be able to handle it when they clearly won't miss him as much as he will them)

It's a ridiculous ploy, his wish for more time with the dwarves and to commit the mountain to memory, but he thinks it will do what he wants it to…so long as the dwarves do not see through it, grow impatient with him, and physically throw him out of their home.

(If it were to happen on the battlements, just as it did all those weeks ago, he thinks he wouldn't resist…not this time.)

Glóin does not scorn him for his pathetically transparent stalling technique, though his eyes flash with something Bilbo can't quite identify. "Of course," he says immediately, inclining his head. "I'll see about Gandalf for you, if you want. The wizard's damn hard to find when he wants to be."

The sudden casualness of the dwarf's voice—the type that Bilbo had come to expect of many of his friends during the journey—is both startling and welcome, even as it buries the knife in his heart ever-deeper.

 _He will leave, and then he will never see them again._  As much as it hurts, he needs to realize that there is nothing he can do to change it, and he needs to act like the adult he is and move on with his life.

(Whatever's left of it, of course.)

He must have said "thank you" to Glóin, because the dwarf is waving and making his way toward the door, though his eyes are strangely sharp and calculating as he shuts it behind him. Bilbo would think more on this, would wonder what is so interesting to him when the whole situation has been clearly cut from the start…but the roaring in his mind has started up anew, seeming almost to emanate from the chests of treasure in the corner.

He hates that gold more passionately than he's felt for anything in his entire life, he thinks, except for the love he has for his family. He cannot stand to look at it, so he rolls over on the bed, covering his ears as if that will do him any good, and thinking of  _anything_  but the gold in the corner, the mountain he's been dismissed from, and the friends— _family_ —he is leaving behind.

And through it all, he pretends he is not slowly losing his mind to the dark voices inside his head.

.

.

That afternoon is simply hell.

Eventually, he forces himself to stand from the bed, to seek out company from someone— _anyone_ —if only to try and quiet the screaming. (It's not even forming coherent words, now; it's just a constant noise that simply  _will not quiet,_  but he cannot think straight over it, and he knows that if he does not attempt to counter it soon, he may never break free.)

He leaves his room on unsteady legs, with violently trembling hands and blurry vision and short, harsh breaths, ready to try and engage anyone— _anyone_ —in conversation. He does not want to knock on one of the Company's door, but he will, if he has to. All he needs right now is someone's voice to ground him in reality, and even if the words are a harsh rejection, for his chaotic mind…they will be better than nothing.

He can barely hear his own footsteps over the screaming in his head, but he thinks he's making his way into the public parts of the mountain, perhaps to the kitchens, because Bombur has never been anything but kind to him. Maybe he will allow him a few minutes to help cook, or bake, or simply do something with his hands. Maybe he will engage him in a conversation about the differences between dwarf and hobbit food, and begin to chase this horror away. Bombur's always been the quiet type, in sharp contrast to his older brother, but Bilbo knows he has much to say when given the opportunity…and he does not grow angry easily.

He thinks this is his best bet at the moment, so he stumbles through the mountain, half-paying attention to his surroundings as he struggles to find the kitchens.

When he finally arrives, though, the young woman there says Bombur is not in; he has not been in the kitchens since that morning, in fact. Since he was called away to the throne room, she has not seen even a glimpse of him.

Bilbo, rather numbed by the failure, thanks her—for the information, and for simply talking to him, because he thinks he can feel his heart rate starting to slow—before walking back out, unsure of where he is going next but simply allowing his feet to wander. (And because of his inattentiveness, he misses the worried glance the dwarf sends after him, the way her brows furrow and her hands clench the dough she is kneading. He does not know, but she resolves to ask Bombur about the small halfling who seemed so out of sorts when he stumbled into the kitchen, asking for him in a trembling voice little more than a hoarse whisper.)

Bilbo does not realize any of this, so he soon finds himself back near his own quarters, though he does not know how or why. He supposes he must be avoiding the throne room, because that is surely where Thorin and Kíli are, continuing the excavation of the enormous hall…and he does not want to face either of them. Not right now.

(He does, but he does not; he is so desperate for company, but he isn't sure he can handle actually carrying on a conversation with anyone at this moment.)

(It's a paradox that sends the voice in his head rising to new levels…a paradox that he's sure is going to drive him mad long before anything else does.)

He realizes suddenly that he is not the only one in the hall; there is another small figure, barely larger than him, several paces away and simply staring at him. He realizes after a moment that it is Ori, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he steps toward the dwarf. Surely, Ori will talk with him, at least for a little while. Perhaps they could sit down and knit for a few minutes, if he has nothing else to do; it's a task that will occupy Bilbo's shaking hands and force him to concentrate, pulling his thoughts away from the voice roaring in his head...

Surely, Ori will understand and make things better.

But as he steps forward, Ori only makes a small sound (a sob, maybe, which Bilbo would recognize were he not so far gone) and turns on his heel, fleeing the other way, down the hall. Bilbo falters, his stomach sinking horribly as he realizes what just happened.  _Ori ran away from him._  He's frightened, or angry, or upset—he doesn't want to spend time with Bilbo, does not want to speak with the hobbit who betrayed him and ruined their friendship and—

He thinks of Ori's words all those weeks ago  _("You're part of the Company. Even if you're not a dwarf, you're still one of us!")_ , thinks of the beautiful drawing folded carefully into his pack, and realizes exactly how far he has fallen.

Feeling tears brim in his eyes, he turns slowly and makes his way back to the room where he is staying, shutting the door and collapsing on the bed with a loud sob.

He does not move for hours.

.

.

That night is the most difficult he's had since his parents died.

He cannot sleep; really, he doesn't think he should be surprised. His mind is still howling, drowning out any rational thoughts he may have had, and the world is going  _too fast too fast too fast_  but at the same time is crawling by, unbearably slow. He does not know the time, but thinks it must be dark by now, must be the middle of the night, because he has been lying here for so long…

_(Useless. Why don't you do something helpful, like find Gandalf or pack or plan your journey? They clearly don't want you anymore, so the faster you leave, the better.)_

His mind is still screaming and his hands are still shaking beyond his control. His breathing has not yet evened out, still coming in short gasps as he struggles to keep his sanity, at least through the night, until he can try and find someone who will consent to talk with him.

(Even a stranger—one of the elves or men who clearly look down on him for his race and his status—would be preferable to this empty not-silence.)

He has not touched the gold still in the corner of the room. The great chests are beautiful, are already rigged to be strapped to a pony's saddle, but he cannot look at them without wanting to be sick. That gold—it's what started everything in the first place. It's what brought Smaug to the mountain, a century and a half ago; it's what took Thorin's mind from him, brought upon the battle and could have so easily killed his friends…

It is sick and disgusting and  _wrong,_  and he recoils from the fact that the dwarves obviously think that the gold is all he's ever wanted from them. They've given him the treasure he was promised, all those months ago in Bag End, and now are simply sending him on his way, as if the gold is more important than any friendship he's formed during the journey.

(Of course, he knows now that those friendships are not real, that his love for them has never been reciprocated, but he'd like to try and keep up the illusion, if only for tonight.)

(He can't fool himself for very long, though, because the clinical way Thorin offered him his  _reward_  and told him to go back to the Shire still cuts through him like a knife.)

 _Thorin has never cared about him,_  and neither have the others. He's been left alone, just like he always has…and he needs to learn to accept it.

The gold is abhorrent, disgusting, and Bilbo cannot bear to face it; so he turns, facing the other way on his bed as he continues to stare at nothing. Something in his pocket is weighing him down as he tries to sort through his still-frenzied thoughts, something small yet heavy that seems to call out to him, as if a beacon in the darkness of his mind—

The ring.

He knows nothing about it (and feels as if he should hate it, because gold is a terrible, terrible thing that will never have a place in his life again) but he feels strangely drawn to it, as if this little band knows what he is going through, is willing to offer him comfort and solace when no one else will.

He remembers thinking the ring seems sentient, and seems  _lonely…_ and somehow, he feels that it understands him better than any of the dwarves do now.

He realizes that it is telling him he has to leave  _right now_.

He barely hesitates before complying, pulling parchment and quill from his bag, writing a short note with still-shaking hands (they may never love him, but he owes them this much, at least) before pulling on his pack and his sword, slipping the ring onto his finger, and making his way out the door.

The voice in his head is screaming ever-louder, apparently infuriated that he is listening to the ring's wishes, but he can only think that he needs to get away from those who do not want him. He needs to get away because it is what will make them happy, and he will do anything to achieve that goal…even at the expense of his own sanity.

And so he steps into the hallway, makes his way to the front gates of Erebor, and tells himself he does not look back.

.

.

.

.

* * *

**x. (…right?)**

Something is not right in the air when the dwarves wake the next morning.

All of them are crushed by Bilbo's imminent departure, of course; but they shouldn't be surprised. After all, as much as they wish he would want to stay, they know that he misses his home in the Shire, know that he feels out of place among so many dwarves…know that they have ruined any chance of true friendship between them after the gold sickness and the battle.

(Thorin does not speak of Bilbo, barely holds his composure when the hobbit is mentioned in his presence. They all know that he blames himself, because when he fell victim to the madness, he said things no friend would ever say, did things that nobody could easily forgive.)

(They think the guilt is probably well-placed, but there is nothing they can do about it now.)

And yet the mountain still feels  _wrong_ , that morning, when they wake early and begin to prepare for the day. None mention Bilbo outright, and none mention the meeting the previous morning where they had hoped—so desperately—that Bilbo would contradict Thorin. They wanted him to claim that he did not wish to journey back to the Shire, wanted him to ask instead that he be allowed to stay in Erebor…

(They would have agreed in a heartbeat, if only he had asked. But his agreement to the terms of his departure were a tacit acknowledgement that he no longer desires their company, and that was the end of that. Forcing him to stay against his wishes would be nothing short of cruel.)

Bombur wakes first, as the kitchens start early in order to provide breakfast for the workers before their first shift. He arrives there shortly before dawn, met by one of the cooks from the Iron Hills: a young dwarrowdam with long, dark braids and an uncharacteristic crease in her brow.

"What's wrong?" he wants to know, mentally running through things that could have happened since he was last in the kitchens. He didn't return yesterday, after Bilbo's decision…was too upset to do anything but sit with his family, wishing things could have gone differently.

"Yesterday afternoon," she says after a moment, staring up at him with a frown, "a halfling came in, asking for you. He seemed…out of sorts, as if something was terribly wrong. I tried to ask him if he was all right, but he left as if he didn't hear me."

 _Bilbo._ Something settles in his gut, something dangerous and uncertain and  _maybe this isn't what we think it is._  Why would Bilbo make his way down to the kitchens, asking specifically for Bombur, if he no longer desired to be his friend? His mind whirls through the possibilities, each worse than the last _,_ and he barely has the presence of mind to tell the girl to start breakfast without him before racing out of the kitchens, making his way back upstairs.

Something is so horribly wrong…and he fears he may be too late to fix it.

.

.

By the time he makes it back to their living quarters, the entire hall is in an uproar.

The others apparently sensed that something was wrong as well, because Balin and Nori ventured into Bilbo's rooms to try and talk to him…and found him gone.

The bedroom is not entirely empty, of course. Bilbo is missing, along with his pack and sword…but the gold is left, untouched, in the corner of the room, and a note on a scrap of parchment is written out in a shaky, near-illegible scrawl—

_"I'm sorry for everything, my friends."_

Ori is near tears, and Bifur is roaring unintelligibly in Khuzdul; Dwalin's face is beet red, and Glóin's is pale as he shakes his head numbly, staring at the note in shock. It's so clear, now, to every one of them, how stupid they have been; and Bombur wants to be sick as he realizes exactly what must have happened.

Kíli confided in them weeks ago—some time before the gates to the mountain were reopened—that Bilbo blames himself for not being able to stop the battle. And Kíli had done his best to reassure him that he had nothing to apologize for, that everything he did was with good intentions, and he very well may have saved their lives…but the hobbit was clearly unconvinced, and Kíli had been at a loss as to how to continue.

None of them, truly, had known what to do…eventually, they decided that since Bilbo had not brought it up again, he had realized that they were not angry with him. They—mindlessly—came to the conclusion that he had been able to move past it and realize that they think no less of him for any wrongs he thinks he might have committed…

Clearly, that is not the case…and no matter how distraught the dwarves have been because of Bilbo's imminent departure, Bombur realizes that the hobbit must be feeling so much worse.

"We have to find him," Fíli says loudly, when nobody else seems willing to speak up. "He can't have gone far, can he? When did we last see him?"

"I…I saw him out here in the hall, yesterday, just before dinner," Ori says tentatively, wiping furiously at his eyes before the tears can fall. "I didn't talk to him, though…thought he wouldn't want to…" His voice chokes off, and he squeezes his eyes shut and covers his mouth as the situation truly crashes down upon them. Bombur realizes, with a sort of cold horror, that they truly brought this upon themselves.

Though they have so desperately wanted Bilbo to stay with them in the mountain, they have given no indication as such…have barely hinted at all that they wish he would not go home. Fíli has been spending a lot of time with the hobbit, Bombur knows, showing him around the mountain while the others work…but they have been so caught up in the beginnings of the renovation that they have not had much time for talking at all.

And then they thrust that offer upon him yesterday as if there were no other option, telling him that they would see him back to the Shire…how must that have sounded to Bilbo, insecure and hesitant as he already was?

They have been utter fools, he realizes. Looking around at the pale faces of his companions, he knows they have come to the same conclusion. This is all their fault—this terrible misunderstanding, the pain Bilbo is surely going through at this very moment…

 _They must find him. Soon._  Before he is too far out of their grasp, before he is beyond their help…so they can salvage this wreck of a situation that should never have happened at all.

.

.

.

.

It is bitterly cold when Bilbo finally allows himself to rest in the ruins of Dale.

He did not account for the weather when he fled the mountain, barely taking more than a jacket out into the early winter's night. He is miserable, and so he finds a relatively sheltered corner by a long-collapsed wall, huddling down and curling into himself for warmth.

He wishes terribly for a fire, for the companionship and warmth that comes along with it…but he knows such things are out of his grasp, now, and forces himself not to dwell on it.

The cold brings him back to his senses, if only slightly, though his mind is still raging so quickly that he can barely keep up. He thinks he should be able to take the ring off; it's not likely that anyone will come looking for him, after all, and all of the orcs have been driven out of this land. He should be able to rest peacefully for a few hours before making his way to Laketown at first light, where he hopes he will be able to beg a bed and supplies from the Men before braving the forests of Mirkwood.

But he realizes that he doesn't  _want_  to remove the ring; it seems almost a part of him, now, and it  _understands_  him. He feels a kinship with this odd little piece of jewelry, and it has followed him through so much hardship these past several months…

It is precious to him, and he thinks he would not like to be parted from it again.

So he hunkers down, invisible, in the ruins of an ancient city, pulling his coat more tightly around his body. He does not bother to take his pack off, instead using it to cushion his back against the stone wall; but he lays his sword across his knees and closes his eyes, waiting silently for the sunrise.

.

.

He must have fallen asleep at some point—an astonishing feat, as his mind has still been howling at full capacity, and he doubted last night that he would get even a moment's sleep. The next thing he knows, though, the sun is shining down on him from the east, and the ruins around him are thrown into sharp relief for the first time.

There are still remnants of the great battle here, though all of the dead have been carried away. Great bloodstains—all dried black, now, despite their origins—coat the walls and the ground, and Bilbo is nearly sick as he realizes he spent the night sitting on top of one of them.

(Someone was killed on this very spot—someone died here because he wasn't able to stop the battle, because he wasn't good enough, despite what Kíli might say—)

In the haze of his barely-awake mind, he can almost see the ghosts of the battle fighting around him, see the corpses of the fallen and hear the great roars of the orcs as they bear down on the defenders. It is absolutely terrifying—and Bilbo very nearly screams when an orc turns toward him, because he does not understand, and because even if he knows this cannot be real, the monster seems so very  _alive—_

But, of course, the wicked blade never meets his skin, and the shadowy figures fade into smoke as a clear voice pierces the morning, making him jump—

"Bilbo!  _Bilbo!_ "

It's Bofur, his voice carrying from far off, but it takes him a moment to realize it. After all,  _why in the world_  would the dwarf be looking for him? He has half a mind to get up then and there and make toward Laketown so he doesn't have to talk with Bofur, doesn't have to prolong what will, inevitably, be a very painful goodbye…

But for some reason, he seems frozen in place, the ring on his finger weighing him down as he hears Bofur's voice growing steadily closer. He tells himself he does  _not_  want to see his friend; he does not want to have to talk with him, not after…

Bofur comes into view soon enough, his face twisted in terror and concern as he continues calling for Bilbo. But he keeps absolutely silent, praying that the power of the ring will not wear off, hoping desperately that Bofur will decide he is not here and move on…

But as the dwarf spins in a slow circle in this place—which might have once been a grand courtyard—Bilbo realizes his mistake once Bofur's eyes lock onto his general location.

_Even with the ring, his shadow is cast by the sun._

He hurries to stand and get into the shade, but this only seems to convince Bofur that he is there, because he moves swiftly, grabbing blindly for Bilbo before finally catching a grip on his shoulders. Bofur searches for Bilbo's face for a moment, never loosening his grip, before finally settling his gaze somewhere on the hobbit's chin.

"Bilbo? We don't want—we never meant—please, just let me explain!"

Bilbo thrashes against the dwarf's grip, the roaring in his mind swelling again until he can hear nothing but his own heart pumping through his ears, drowning out whatever Bofur is trying to tell him.

(But he realizes suddenly that anything— _anything_ —would be better than losing himself to that madness again.)

He tries to fumble for his right hand, but his arms feel like dead weights, and he is nowhere near strong enough for such a task. But Bofur seems to understand, for he trails down Bilbo's arms, searching for his hands, and at last—at  _long_ last—the dwarf's gloved fingers pull the ring free.

"Bilbo," he says, his features falling in relief as he takes in the hobbit's face. "Bilbo, we thought we lost you—"

"What are you—" he tries to say, but his voice catches, and he has to swallow thickly before trying again—"Why did you follow me?"

"You great big idiot," Bofur says, and despite his harsh words, there is no cruelty in his tone or on his face. All Bilbo can see is blinding relief as the dwarf grasps his shoulders again, dropping the ring unceremoniously to the ground. "This has all—we were being stupid, of course we were, but what can you expect from us—"

Though his heart has calmed and the voice in his head has quieted to some degree, Bilbo still has trouble deciphering Bofur's babbling as some strange sense of vertigo catches up with him all at once. He sways on his feet, and Bofur immediately helps him sit down, his face twisting in alarm as he pats him down, desperate to find the source of the dizzy spell.

"Bilbo? Bilbo! Are you all right? Are you injured? Did something happen—?"

"M'fine," he says after a moment, steadying himself by grabbing Bofur's arms. "Just—felt faint for a moment."

"We should have Óin check to make sure," he says, and his tone leaves no room for arguments as he helps Bilbo to his feet again, slinging an arm around his shoulders. "Head injuries don't just heal overnight, you know, or even over a few weeks—if you knocked something when you fell in the battle—"

"I'm  _fine,_ " he insists, though he's still not entirely sure what's going on or why Bofur seems to be leading him back to the mountain. "Why're you—I thought you wanted me to leave—"

"No, see, that was us being halfwits, like I mentioned," Bofur says immediately, and his tone is full of remorse as he continues, "We thought  _you'd_  want to leave, seeing as you always talked about that hobbit hole of yours—and I must admit, it was a fine house, but we were hoping you'd want to stay in Erebor—"

Bofur continues to talk animatedly, sheer relief pouring off him in waves, but Bilbo can barely pay attention through his suddenly-throbbing head. He's not sure what brought it about—because he hasn't hit it, not once, since the battle, and it hasn't pained him in weeks—but he can feel himself going light-headed again as he trips in Bofur's grasp, struggling to stay standing.

Bofur halts abruptly, holding Bilbo up by the shoulders with a horribly worried look on his face…he thinks the dwarf is shouting something at him, but he cannot hear the words.

The last thing he knows is the heavy weight in his pocket of the ring—that he is sure should have been left behind in Dale—before the world goes dark.

.

.

Worried chatter greets him when he wakes again, and his head throbs terribly as several voices assault his ears all at once.

He must be in Erebor again, he realizes. Bofur must have carried him back to the mountain to seek medical attention (though he can't imagine what caused the episode out on the plains)…and, of course, the others would have been alerted to his return.

But  _why_  is he back in the mountain? Why has Thorin allowed him entry, when he made it so clear only yesterday that he wants him gone?

He tries to sit himself up despite his still-splitting headache, if only to quiet the dwarves around him, but there is immediately a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down and making sure he stays there as Óin hovers over his face, concern creasing his brow.

"Bilbo? How are you feeling? Gandalf is on his way, we think this might have something to do with magic, so we thought it best to ask him—"

 _(Magic?_  When has he ever come into contact with magic, since they left Mirkwood?)

(And more importantly, why has he been allowed back home?)

He has so many questions he needs to ask but cannot find the words to do so, so he only squints up at Óin carefully, trying to decipher the answers in the old dwarf's face. There is nothing there, though, except honest concern for his well-being…which, he supposes, answers one question. For some reason, the dwarves have changed their minds…and have decided that they want him to stay.

"How does your head feel?" Óin tries again after several moments, squinting as he studies Bilbo's face. "Can you speak?"

Bilbo sees Kíli shift nervously and glance toward Bifur, and he realizes suddenly why Bofur had been so concerned about his head injury. He's not sure how he could have forgotten; of  _course_ , the dwarf would worry when others hurt their heads, when his own cousin had survived such a trauma.

He doesn't think his is quite as severe as Bifur's, though, because despite the splitting pain radiating from his forehead, his thoughts are clear. They're  _remarkably_  clear, in fact: more so than they have been in several days.

He wonders suddenly where his ring has gone, because it is not in his pocket, and he greatly desires to hold it. (Why? It only seems to have brought him grief, after all.)

"Head hurts," he is able to say to Óin, and his voice is rather hoarse as he continues, glancing around the room. "Where's my ring?"

All of the dwarves seem to stiffen, and Bofur steps forward carefully, holding something wrapped in cloth, stopping a good distance from the bed.

"You know, it's funny…because I  _specifically_  remember dropping it on the ground when I found you, and I didn't see you pick it back up…but somehow, it wound up back in your pocket."

He pauses, studying Bilbo's face, before continuing carefully, "There's something funny about this ring, there's no mistaking that. We think it might be what's causing you problems with your head, so we're going to ask Gandalf to look at it for us before we let you have it back. Is that all right with you?"

It's not, Bilbo realizes suddenly, as a flash of hatred surges through him. He wants to rage at Bofur for stealing his ring; he wants to take back what rightfully belongs to him, using force if necessary. It's  _his—he_  found it—it's his pr—

Terrible memories, though, stop that train of thought abruptly, and all Bilbo can see is the emaciated creature in the bowels of the Misty Mountains. The madness so clear on its face was terrifying to behold as it argued with itself, as it screamed over the loss of its ring when Bilbo fled, taking what was not rightfully his…

And, perhaps even more terrifying: he is reminded vividly of Thorin, only weeks ago, caught wholly in the throes of the gold sickness. He ordered his kin to search tirelessly for the Arkenstone…threatened to end Bilbo's life for taking it, even if it were to stop a war…

The parallels are stark and frightening, because he realizes that for a moment, he was ready to physically harm Bofur, should he not agree to give the ring back; and he thinks that if it were lost, he would not stop searching until he found it.

He knows that these dwarves—his  _family_ —have lived through such horror once already. He will not subject them to it again.

So with great difficulty he agrees to Bofur's proposal, only adding that he would "greatly appreciate it if you keep the damned thing out of my sight, thank you very much. I've had enough of gold to last me a lifetime." And when he says this, the dwarves seem to relax as one, as if Bilbo's answer to that question is the catalyst for everything that will come after.

(And, forcibly shoving down the longing he feels as Bofur carries the ring away, Bilbo thinks it probably is.)

.

.

Later, once everyone has settled down (Bilbo still suffers from a splitting headache as he sits up in bed, but his mind is clearer than ever…and if his thoughts often wander back to that little golden ring, he forces them down and away), he is able to ask the question that has been gnawing at his gut since he first awoke. All of the dwarves—even those who he suspects should be working elsewhere—have settled into his room, Fíli and Kíli sitting on the enormous bed while the others have made themselves comfortable on the floor.

None of them seem willing to leave him, even for a second, and he has to wonder why…especially after they offered to escort him home less than two days ago.

Why, now, are they so eager to see him stay?

He voices the question during a lull in the conversation, a light-hearted thing that he only half paid attention to. They grow quiet immediately, sharing uneasy glances…and Bilbo wonders suddenly whether he's interpreting this wrong after all, whether they truly do not want him here, but feel obligated, at least until the mess with the ring is sorted out—

( _No. Stop thinking about it._ )

But then Balin speaks up, his face grave as he says, "Laddie, we would be honored to have you stay here with us, in the mountain. But after everything that's happened…we simply thought you would prefer to return home, to the Shire."

This, of all the possible answers to his question, was the one Bilbo least expected; he only stares at Balin for a moment, his mind blanking as he struggles to reply. Eventually, looking around at all the dwarves, who are staring at him expectantly…"Bag End—that  _is_  home," he says at length, and he sees Fíli visibly deflate before he continues hastily, "but I never—I never felt  _at home_  there, if you understand my meaning. My neighbors and relatives—we never truly got along, not like I have with all of you. I've been hoping—I've been planning for months, now, hoping that you would let me stay here." He feels the heat radiating from his face, and ducks his head as he finishes, "I would much rather live in Erebor than go back to the Shire, if you will have me."

Utter silence fills the room for several moments, and Bilbo dares not look up, in case somehow, something has gone horribly wrong, and he misinterpreted their meaning yet again, and—

But abruptly, he is knocked onto his back by two strong pairs of arms, and his vision is full of blond and dark hair as Fíli and Kíli engulf him in an enormous hug, practically shouting in his ear their enthusiastic approval of his decision. Bilbo winces as pain shoots through his head, but does not have the heart to shush them or to push them off; he only wraps his arms as far around them as he can, patting their backs and returning their grins when they finally release him.

The elder dwarves are more sedated in their reactions, but wide smiles have split every one of their faces. Even Dwalin and Thorin—usually so serious and stoic—look very pleased, and as Bilbo watches, Dwalin punches the king's shoulder lightly, standing up and saying loudly, "I think this calls for a round of ale!"

The dwarves' enthusiastic approval seems to shake the entire mountain.

.

.

By the time Gandalf arrives, Bilbo has almost completely succeeded in forcing down the thoughts of his ring. If he loses focus, there is the strange, nagging longing constantly at the edges of his mind… But after an ale or two—though Óin has forbidden him to drink any more, which he thinks is probably wise—he is so engulfed in the antics of the dwarves around him that he does not even have the chance to miss it.

Once the wizard enters the room holding the small bundle of cloth, though, everything comes crashing back down.

Everyone stills immediately, instinctively tensing as Gandalf unwraps the cloth, careful not to touch the ring as he inspects it carefully. He hums to himself but says nothing for several moments; the tension in the room builds and builds and builds, and Bilbo doesn't realize he is leaning toward the ring until he feels Dori's strong grip on his arm, holding him in place.

Eventually, the wizard looks up, his gaze taking in all fourteen of them before he addresses Bilbo—"You found this under the Misty Mountains?"

"Yes," he says, nodding slowly, and he thinks he is grateful for Dori's hand, grounding him in reality as he continues, "There was a small creature—almost a wraith—who I tricked into helping me escape, and I took it from him."

Gandalf hums again, his eyes narrowing before, abruptly, he steps toward the roaring fireplace and throws the ring into it.

The cry that leaves Bilbo's lips does not sound at all like himself as he tries to leap forward, held in check only by the impossible grip on his arm. Many of the dwarves jerk at the noise, but Gandalf does not so much as twitch, only staring at the ring intently as the flames lick at it for several moments.

Eventually, the wizard picks up the tongs and carefully fishes the undamaged ring out, blowing on it gently before raising his eyebrows and simply dropping it back into the cloth in his hand. Many of the dwarves cry a warning, but Gandalf reassures them, "It is quite cool."

Dori does not seem willing to let Bilbo go any closer, but Gandalf gestures for him, so the dwarf leads him forward, never loosening his grip on his arm, ready to jerk him away should the need arise. Bilbo steps forward carefully, unwilling to let himself be drawn by the ring…but at the same time, he is entranced by its beauty, by the way the flames seem to flicker and dance along the band as they are reflected by the metal.

"Do you see anything, Bilbo?" Gandalf says loudly, cutting through his suddenly muddled thoughts and forcing him to blink, looking up rather dazedly. "Is there anything appearing on the surface?"

He looks back down more closely at the ring, and is more than slightly surprised to see a script he does not recognize appearing in burning strokes, encircling the ring for a few moments before slowly beginning to fade from view. "There are words there," he says, narrowing his eyes and forcing himself to attend to the task at hand, "but I cannot read them. I think they're in some form of Elvish."

Gandalf lets out a great whoosh of air, covering the ring abruptly and securing the tie, handing it after a moment of hesitation to Bofur. The dwarf accepts the package with no small amount of surprise, staring up at the wizard questioningly as he quickly retrieves his staff and hat, heading for the door before anyone can even realize that he's leaving.

"Wait, Gandalf! Where are you going?" Bilbo calls after him, rather desperate. "What is this ring, exactly?"

"Tell no one it is here," the wizard says, his voice low and dark as he turns, a few steps from the closed door. "That ring does not exist until I tell you it does. Do not handle it, under any circumstances—keep it hidden, in a safe place, and do not speak of it again until I have returned."

He turns away, clearly finished with the conversation, but Thorin steps forward with long strides, his face murderous as he accuses the wizard—"If this ring is so greatly affecting one of our own, I expect you to give us more information than that."

Gandalf looks levelly at the dwarf for a moment before shifting his gaze to the rest of the Company. "As you suspected, this is a ring of power, but it is far greater and more powerful than any that consumed the kings that have gone before you. No one is safe while it still lives, but you cannot destroy it. Do as I say, keep Bilbo hidden here, and I will return when I know more."

He slams the door behind him with terrifying finality…and Bilbo realizes now that though this first conflict has ended—the dragon and the mountain and the great battle before the gates—there will likely be many more to come. (He has never seen Gandalf look so terrified.)

Though he tries to ignore it, though Bofur quickly does his best to put distance between Bilbo and the package in his hands, the whispers in his mind are calling to him…

Whatever this new horror is, whatever terrible things this  _ring_  has wrought upon them all…Bilbo has been dragged into it, and they will be forced to fight. But Bilbo knows, looking at the grim expressions of those around him, that these dwarves will stay with him until the bitter end. They— _all_ of them—will see this done; and when they have eradicated whatever new evil is lurking in the dark corners of this world, they will finally have their hard-won peace.

And despite the darkness even now encroaching upon his thoughts, Bilbo thinks that is more reassuring than anything else in Middle Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading, guys! :) At least the ending is semi-happy, right~?


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